The Tale of Cecelia: Another Unoriginal MapleStory
by Epic Writing Fail
Summary: A fifteen year old girl figures out that the Maple World isn't all fun and games anymore.
1. Just a Game

**Chapter One**

She finds herself staring into an expanse of shadows, the blackness stretching as far as her eye could reach.

'_Cecelia!_' she swears she hears a faded voice in the darkness.

"H-Huh?"

'_Where am I?_' she rubs her eyes, pulling herself up from the cold floor.

Her eyes finally adjust to the darkness of the room, and she finds herself affixed to her spot, mouth gaping open.

Beady, emotionless eyes stare at her from every direction. They glare from the tops of shelves, hanging from the ceiling by strings riddled with cobwebs, closed inside cases…

"Most people think that these dolls look creepy."

The girl snaps around at the sound of the voice.

'_Cecelia!_' She tries to ignore the shouting coming from nowhere, not entirely sure if she wants to know where they're coming from.

Looking down, she sees a hooded figure standing below her, perhaps boy no older than ten, peering up at her with wide eyes the colour of burnt amber. She could not distinguish them from the glass eyes (no, _dead_ eyes) that surround her, looking as though they were looking at her, yet looking at nothing.

"And I agree with them, sometimes."

She watches closely as he paces around the room at a mockingly slow pace, still looking at her, occasionally pausing to take a longer look at a doll or two, forming a small smile on his lips.

"Dolls are completely hollow, you see," he says, smiling at one held inside a case, which stares blindly back at him, "Completely hollow, in body and soul."

She glances about the room again, and, for some reason, the dolls' gazes, in all their lifelessness, seem to pierce her.

'_Cecelia! Hey, Cecelia!_'

He pauses to look back at her, still wearing the same expression.

"That void connects them with death."

"Gh…" she clutches at her head.

"But empty things seek to fill their hollowness, no?" he says, cheerily enough to send chills up her spine.

He pulls back, still staring into her eyes, though his small smile had grown into a full grin.

"Don't you feel like there's something in this place drawing something out of you?"

'_Hey, Cecelia!_'

"Wh-Who are you?"

_'Cecelia!_'

The boy pulls back his hood, revealing a shock of unkempt forest green hair shading over his eyes. He looks at her, as though this answers her question.

"I only have one question for you."

"What is it?"

"Do you fear death?"

* * *

"—_Cecelia!_"

"Gah!"

The black-haired girl jolts up from her seat as a sharp object is jabbed into her side. Turning her head to the right, she narrows her almond-shaped eyes at her friend, giving her a look that screamed, '_What the hell did you do _that_ for?_'

Instead, Cecelia utters these words with the flattest voice she can manage; "Amber, do you know _how_ many holes you've poked in to my blazer in this past _week_?"

Her red-haired friend simply glares at her, jerking her thumb to the front of the classroom.

"Huh?"

Her head turns around to meet the perhaps near-deadly gaze of her English teacher. Then, Cecelia can see from the teacher's thin lips forming a tight line and her eyes sparking with anger through those old wire-glasses of hers, that there are so many things to fear other than death.

The teacher's stern voice rings loud and clear, "It's nice to see that you finally somehow managed to lift your head off your desk and open your eyes."

A blushing Cecelia glances around the classroom to see the rows of people snickering.

"I… I'll stay awake for the rest of the class, I promise."

The English teacher shakes her head.

"It may be the last period of the day, Cecelia," she turns back to the whiteboard, "But I'm sure it's possible to pull through."

Wordlessly, Cecelia opens her laptop, quickly checks to see if the teacher is still turned away, then proceeds to place her head on the keyboard.

"You alright there? You're looking a little pale," Amber frowns, "Do you need to go to the Health Centre?"

"Spare me," Cecelia suppresses a groan, "All the nurse does is give you tea and send you back out again. I don't need to go, really."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm fine," Cecelia rubs her forehead, "I'm really not sick. I'm just…"

She shut her eyes tight, grimacing at the memories that had come to surface.

"I'm just a little tired, I guess."

"English is exhausting, huh?" Her friend slyly remarks.

Cecelia glares at her, "Don't mock me, literature nerd."

"Come on, cheer up. It's the end of the day and there's only five minutes left until the weekend. And then freedom—"

"—Until Monday comes around like a speeding eight-wheeler cutting a corner, breaking every single bone in your body as it runs you over on the sidewalk. And then you realise you forgot to write that essay that was due two weeks ago, and you wish you really _were_ run over by a truck."

"Wow."

"I don't think that's a _good_ kind of wow."

"Actually, it's more like the 'Wow, how did you only manage a C on the creative writing task?' kind of 'Wow'. You've got quite the imagination."

'_Imagination?_' Cecelia frowns.

* * *

_"Do you fear death?"_

* * *

"_Hey._"

Amber waves a hand in front of her face.

"Cecelia," Her whisper is harsh, "Not dozing off again, are you? And while talking to someone, too. _Rude_."

Cecelia rubs her eyes with a sigh, "I'm sorry. I just had the… the _weirdest_ dream. I'm still feeling a little odd."

"When was this?"

"Y'know, _just_ before you stabbed my kidney with a pacer."

"Right. So what's this about the dream?"

"My memory about it is a little fuzzy," she lies, "I can't remember most of it. You know how you can't remember dreams, right? They just disappear from your memory as soon as you wake up."

'_At least,_' she thinks, '_I hoped it would be that way this time…_'

"Well then, what _can_ you remember?"

Cecelia gulps.

"Well—"

Her words are drowned out by the sound of the school bell, the scraping of chairs, the zipping of pencil cases…

Nearly half of the class had already bolted out the door before the teacher manages to say, "Remember, girls, your homework for tonight is to work on your oral presentation. You should already be finished with them by now, so I'm allowing you all to present on Monday and give you the week-end to brush up your speech and PowerPoint…"

Her voice can still be heard seeping through the door as the both of them make their way to their lockers.

"God, she's probably going to still be there trying to tell us what our homework was by the time we get back on Monday," Cecelia dryly remarks, "It's not like I need any more homework, dammit."

Amber frowns as she walks alongside her friend, finding Cecelia peering meticulously at her school-issued planner—honestly, who even _uses_ that thing?—with narrowed eyes.

"Jesus," Cecelia mutters, "Amber, look. Just _look_ at it."

She pauses to peer into the book, before she produces a pair of black-framed glasses from her pocket, putting them on before leaning closer towards the book.

Amber shakes her head, "Nope. I can't even read that with my glasses on. Your writing's _way_ too small."

"That's because if I wrote it _normally_, it would become a scroll that would be long enough to stretch all the way from here to Russia."

Amber raises an eyebrow, "C'mon. _Really_?"

"Okay, maybe _only_ to China."

"I take it you won't have much free time over the weekend?"

Cecelia lets out a nervous laughter as she tucks the planner back into the pile of books on her arms, "Nope. I'll be spending the weekend doing homework, as per the Asian tradition. Though, I'll be working mostly on that oral presentation. That thing's going to kill me… It has to be _at least_ 5 minutes and I haven't done any research. At _all_. Who even cares about immigration?"

"There, there," Amber pats her shoulder, "You'll pull through, I'm sure. I mean, if I can do it, then you can too, right?"

"For the love of good food, Amber, you're the dux of humanities. It would be an insult to you and your prowess to compare yourself to a plebeian like me."

"Even the dux of humanities wouldn't be able to do all that well if they spend all their time playing video games."

Cecelia dumps all of her books into her bag, with a raised eyebrow.

"Video games, eh?" she says, "What kind?"

Her friend feels the edge of her lip twitching into a nervous smile. Cecelia steps closer.

"Amber?" she presses, a smirk playing on her lips, "Come on, it can't be that bad. I'm a bit of a gamer, too. I mean, I wouldn't judge you unless it was some lame game like _Maple Story_…"

Amber grimaces at the thought of it. All that time wasted in that room where the only light was the flashing of the computer screen, the only sound beyond her headphones the clacking of the keyboard under her fingertips.

All that unfinished work, that wasted time, and for what?

Cecelia's smile fades.

"Oh, God, Amber…"

"D-Don't judge me if _you_ haven't tried it," she stammers, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she marched out of the locker room—or attempts to, if not for Cecelia's arm intercepting her.

"What Asian girl hasn't tried to play that game even _once_?" she laughs, "Didn't it spread like wildfire before? We were all addicted, once."

Amber sighs, "They recently added a new update. Maybe you can try it out?"

"Good God, why would you torture me like that?"

"It's just a game, Cecelia," Amber says, "Teachers assign unreasonable amounts of homework, sure, but… Just chill out a bit sometimes, won't you? Save the stress for year 12."

Cecelia blinks in response at her utter seriousness, not sure whether to laugh or cringe. So much homework, so many tests, and exams coming up soon… she can't even remember the last time she's had a full night's sleep.

"It won't hurt, I promise."

"_Sure_ it won't."

"Well, if you plan to procrastinate some more, you should think about it," Amber retorts, "It's a wonderful time waster."

She pops an iPod earpiece into her left ear, cracking a smile.

"You'd know."

Cecelia frowns, opening her mouth to retort, but her friend had already left. With a sigh, she makes her own way to the school gates.

* * *

Cecelia manages to drag herself through the door, before letting the bag drop from her shoulders to the floor with a considerably loud _thud_ in the corner where cobwebs, huntsmen spiders and old schoolbooks usually reside.

She blinks at the corner, muttering to no-one in particular, "I should get around to cleaning up that up eventually, shouldn't I?"

'_Maybe after you get through the homework towers,_' the sensible part of her quips.

Cecelia then turns her head towards the table in the kitchen, which, really, should have been called the study. The only reason the room is _called_ a kitchen was the presence of a fridge, pantry and stove next to a dining table stacked with old and new textbooks, notes, old exam papers, and the occasional detention slip.

'_Whatever,_' another stack of books is plonked on to the table, '_Mallory seems happy eating on the couch._'

She produces the first and most frequently used book on the pile—her planning diary. Begrudgingly, she begins scanning her eyes over the messy scrawl across the pages.

'_Maths, all of chapter 3 from planning sheet, due Monday; English presentation, due Monday; Chinese homework, due Saturday; study for biology test on Monday; tutor—_'

She slams the book shut, flustered.

'_Oh, come on. You didn't even pick up a textbook, much less open your laptop._'

"Screw homework," she mutters, brushing back her fringe as she steps toward the fridge, "I'll need a hell of a lot of comfort food to get through all of _that_."

Opening up the can of diet coke while shutting the fridge door with her elbow, she raises an eyebrow at the sight of a sheet stuck to the fridge. Cecelia tears it off, narrowing her eyes at it.

_Cecelia,_

_I'll be coming home late tonight. There's still leftover takeout from  
yesterday, so you can heat that up and eat that for dinner tonight. If it's  
gone off already, there's always that instant ramen in the pantry._

_Remember to do your homework, stop sleeping at 3 o'clock in the  
morning, and don't forget to book those parent-student-teacher interviews.  
I know they're a while away, but we might as well get things done early,  
right?_

_Love you,  
Mum_

Cecelia reads it again, once, twice, her gaze darkening each time. Without her realising, the paper crumples under her fingertips.

"Stupid Mallory," she hisses. She isn't quite sure why she's angry, seeing as she's _never_ home on time. When was the last time she's had a home-cooked meal?

'Sorry, I'm too busy,' is always the reply she gets, 'Maybe some time next week?' Even though she's always too busy, and 'next week' never comes.

The paper is compressed more and more into a tiny ball in her fist, '_She's not trying to be mean._'

As Cecelia directs her gaze back towards the piles of paper and books of work that is overdue, or soon to be due in attempt to direct her thoughts elsewhere, her eyes glaze over.

'_I remember you doing this last time. No, the paper won't just shrivel up or catch fire if you stare at it for long enough._'

Cecelia takes a nonchalant swig of her drink, "How about I just set it all on fire?"

'_Nah, don't burn down the house. You may as well actually _work_, no? Revision for that biology test sounds like quite a bit of work. Maybe you should work on that._'

"The last time I tried to study for a biology test, I gave up and ended up whacking the textbook against my head in desperate hope that the knowledge would somehow move into my brain via diffusion."

'_Oh, please. Your skull's too thick for anything to get through it at all._'

Cecelia sighs, setting the can of soft drink back down on the table.

"God, I wonder why I'm so _mean_ to myself sometimes."

She starts building up the fifth homework tower, placing the books to the side, two by two.

'_What are you doing?_'

Cecelia pulls out her laptop and plonks it onto the table, not hesitating to open it, until…

'No facebook! No tumblr! No procrastination! No slacking!_'_ is the writing on the sticky note that lay next to the touchpad, 'Homework comes first!'

She raises an eyebrow at it.

'_No. Really, just don't do it._'

Her hands are shaky, hovering over the power button.

"W-Well, what's the worst that could happen?"

'_You _know_ what's going to happen._'

Not listening, and not caring, Cecelia presses the power button, and the machinery whirs to life.

'Come on, come on…' she urges, as she drums her fingers nervously against the table, clacking as her nails tap on the wood.

Her now dull brown eyes are glued on to the black screen, several long seconds pass as she waits—oh, how she waits—for the screen to light up.

'_Maths, all of chapter 3 from planning sheet, due Wednesday; English presentation, due Monday; Chinese homework, due Saturday; study for biology test on Monday; tutor—_'

Cecelia shuts her eyes, sighing.

'_Do you really want to waste your life on something like this again?_'

Maths.

English.

Chinese.

Biology.

Tutor.

_Schoolwork_.

All this untouched schoolwork, and yet she can still bring herself to double-click the desktop shortcut.

"What have I got to lose?"

'_Your dignity._'

"Oh, please," she groans, "The last time I spotted that thing was when I shoved it under the couch some time ago."

After the welcome screen gives way to her desktop after a long enough period of time that Cecelia thought her laptop may well have been mocking her, her cursor finds its way to an icon on the corner of the screen.

The ever-familiar starting screen of the game that had effectively ruined her life starts up, and she isn't sure why her heart twinges slightly. Cecelia exhales.

"This is it."

And she sits there, staring at the screen, thinking, with perhaps a twinge of annoyance, perhaps anger, perhaps nostalgia; '_What am I even doing?_'

This game, this _stupid_ game for some reason eludes her and, as those pixels walk on the spot, she feels somewhat… _happy_.

Like she belonged somewhere, somehow.

_Why_, she had always wondered.

The innocence of battling a monster for the first time, the first time one gets a second job advancement, the excitement behind the introduction of third job; camaraderie not found elsewhere, the spark, that _magic_ of the Maple World in all its ironically plotless glory.

Then, people began to start chasing numbers.

People began to slave for hours, days, _months_ to perfect the big, bold, colourful digits that pop up on the screen just to be able to only spend seconds to defeat a monster and reap the rewards that add up to another large number, which allows you to buy pixels, and… continue to chase numbers.

Cecelia grimaces.

MapleStory had reached its prime quite a while ago, and its golden days were long gone to her. Then why is she _still_ so attached to this stupid, _stupid_ game?

"Today is the day that I, Cecelia Yang…"

It was then that Cecelia Yang realises that she no longer needed an answer.

"Will officially commit social suicide."

_Click_.

* * *

The blue bar at the bottom of that window seems to move at a snail's pace. In fact, the only way she knows it's moving at all is because she stares so, _so_ intently at it. She swore under her breath.

It laughs at her, as it seems to slow down every time she narrows her eyes at it.

'_Shouldn't you, I don't know… Get homework done while the game's loading?_'

"You're such a joker, me."

'_Look, just do your homework._'

"No."

'_Maybe, then, you can go to bed at a time that isn't some ungodly hour in the morning._'

"_Hell_ no."

After a few incredibly long hours—perhaps only a few minutes, but it seems like days have passed before her eyes—the screen finally turns white. Cecelia notices that the sky had progressed from brightness to blackness in the time she had sat there swimming in her thoughts, but shrugs at the notion.

From the moment that the screen turns white, and she knows, from that very moment, that she is completely and utterly _hooked_. And she hasn't even started to play yet.

"C'mon, Cecelia," She rubs her eyes, "This is pathetic. Get a grip. Get a hold of yourself."

'_It's just a game._'

Eyes narrowing, she peers at the screen again, and the symbol for the God-forsaken company that managed to suck most of the money out of her wallet appears, as is what happens when games start up.

'_Just a game._'

From the loudspeakers, calm music playing on a perpetual, never-ending loop starts up. The same as two years ago, though there was a disharmony in the background… Cecelia shakes her head.

'_They've probably changed the music since then, right?_' She chuckles to herself, '_Maybe the new player base likes creepy, distorted crap._'

In spite of her thoughts, she finds herself already glued to the seat, eyes captivated by the glower of that screen.

Blackness begins to eat at the corners of her vision, as she clicks quickly through the server selection screen.

She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, which seems to provide her temporary escape from her tiredness. Cecelia notices, also, the distortion in the background music grow louder, _louder_…

"It's just a game," she assures herself, "Nothing more, nothing less."

Perhaps it is the fact that this is her very first game, and the memories and nostalgia that come from playing it would bring her happiness, some sort of escape from her real life and those never-ending piles of homework.

_Click, click_, her finger begins to tremble.

Or, maybe it is the fact that the game is always updated so quickly that, every time she decides to quit, she would _still _come back just to see what's changed.

'_Yeah, it's definitely the latter…_'

A completely different game.

A completely different world from what she knows from her childhood.

A game trying to relive its golden days, enticing players with gold, prizes, mere _pixels_ and _numbers_ that amount to _nothing_ but a false sense of gratification is such a sad, sad sight to behold.

Everything she knew, everything she cherished, everything that makes this game pull her in with promises of escape, of gratification, amount to nothing and fizzle away to disrepair, because nothing, no-one can bring those memories back again. Cecelia narrows her eyes.

She knows it's all gone.

But trying again can't hurt, right?

As though on cue, the dissonance takes over her loud speakers. No matter how many times she blinks, her vision won't stop blurring. Cecelia still manages to click on the '_Select Character'_ button nonetheless, and, as the screen faded to black, she, too, fell into an abyss of blackness.

The last sound she swears she hears is a cackling laughter in the distance, before her head lands on the centre of her keyboard.

* * *

Her eyes snap open.

"Huh?"

She clambers on to her feet, eyes widening as she took in her surroundings.

An azure sky, masked by the canopy of trees and the pale green leaves sparkling with morning dew. Golden strings of light pour through the emergent layer of leaves and on to the dank, swampy forest floor.

Ellinia. This can't be anywhere else.

Cecelia stands in red gumboots, a crop top and red miniskirt, sporting the same black-and-blonde hair her character has.

"_No._"

She clutches at her face, breath going shallow, tears stinging at her eyes.

"Shit," she pinches up her arms, wincing in pain as she does so, "Shit, wake up… wake _up, _dammit…"

Cecelia lets out a quivering breath, thinking that she should, at the very least, be grateful to have fingers, toes, and a nose, unlike her sprite in this game. Whether it's the cold wind that makes her shiver, or the prospect that this may be _more_ than a dream, she doesn't know. Nonetheless…

A girl's scream reverberates through the canopies.


	2. The First Step

Cecelia peers up towards the treetops, narrowing her eyes at the sun, sorting through the thoughts running through her mind that were not going into overdrive at the notion of being trapped inside a video game with perhaps no hope of escape.

For one, she could climb up to the top of Ellinia and jump down from the high tree branches, hoping that the pain of the impact would wake her up from this demented dream.

Or she would die. Either way sounds better than living in the world of _Maple Story_.

However, if game mechanics overpower the logic of Newton's Law in the Maple World, then she'll only suffer minor cuts—at most, a nasty bruise—from falling such a distance, so that is crossed off the list.

Aside from the fact that she can't wake up from her dream by jumping off a tree, she probably doesn't have the potions or the money to buy said potions to tend to any injuries she would sustain if it doesn't work out as planned.

Her next option is crying hysterically, and screaming until she could scream no longer, under the premonition that the pain of cutting off your vocal chords would transport one back to the real world—as therapeutic it would be to cry out to nobody and no-one, Cecelia's attempt would be in vain.

Lastly, she decides she can hunt the slimes around these parts and hope to pick a few mesos and sell the slime gels she obtains from their carcasses.

"_Perfect_!" she laughs, as she strides confidently through the swirling blue and purple portal.

* * *

Her knee-high boots clack against the dark wooden planks of the path, noticing the steps go in a downward spiral that she cannot see the bottom of.

"What the hell is going on?" she asks no-one in particular.

'_I hate this update already…' _she thinks, having been familiar with the old maps and training grounds that have now been revamped or removed, '_They changed everything!_'

Grudgingly stepping down to the next platform, she witnesses an orange mushroom nearly as large as her brush past her ankles.

Raising an eyebrow, Cecelia stares at it, not entirely sure whether or not it is more strange that there were _orange mushrooms_ in _Ellinia_, or to be shocked at how true they are to the game, proportions and all.

Cecelia swallows, '_They really _did _change everything._"

She walks cautiously, careful to not let the monster notice her, as well as to make sure the mossy, vine-encased wood doesn't crack under her step. Seeing the mushroom bouncing towards an invisible wall—game mechanics _can_ be strange, Cecelia decides—the magician makes her move.

"_Energy Bolt!_" she exclaims, waving her wand, but to no avail. The mushroom turns around, and blinks at her.

Cecelia stands her ground, "Um…"

"Myu!" it squeals triumphantly, as Cecelia is knocked to the ground.

Eyes widened in shock, she topples over.

"G-God dammit…"

Getting up weakly with one eye shut in pain, she stands up and lifts up her wand, glaring in to the ebony eyes of the oversized mushroom.

"Um…" Cecelia smiles nervously, pointing her wand as hard as she can, "_Avada Kevadra_?"

Nothing shoots out of the tip of her wand except air, as the mushroom rams in to her at twice the speed it had before.

"Ah-!" Cecelia is knocked off the platform, tumbling, turning and rolling down the steps.

"Myu!"

"O-Ow…" Feebly, she lifts herself up by the arms, brushing her black hair out of her eyes, "Gh…"

Cecelia's eyes widen as she feels a warm drop of crimson dribble down the middle of her forehead and down her cheek.

* * *

"Oh, boy…" The ebony-haired boy scratches the back of his head, one eye shut as he gives a small yawn, "Henesys sure _is_ dead today. Even in the afternoon, of all times…"

He gives a stretch, "There's nobody interesting to talk to, anyway—I only go to Henesys to mock the people dressed in funny outfits…"

'_Like I can talk, eh?_'

Perhaps thinking aloud—_alone_—filled the empty canopies with the sound of his horrid, _horrid_ voice?

"Take _that_, birds," he laughs, still slowly clambering up the steps as he looks up into the trees.

"… _Avada Kevadra?_"

"Myu!" something else squeaks in reply, undoubtedly one of the mushrooms that had migrated from Henesys.

With a raised eyebrow, the frail boy's gaze whips around the forest, to the holes in the trunks, the highest branches, below those branches…

"Wh-What…"

He clasps tighter on to his weapon of choice, a ducky tube.

'_Harry Potter?_' He wrinkles his nose. '_I never really liked that book. Then again, I only read the first and last books—_'

"O-Ow…"

Eyes darting around once more, he curses himself for letting his thoughts be led astray—_again_.

"No!" he shouts to himself, smacking himself with his weapon, "Focus, dammit!"

"Gh…"

With that last noise, his eyes are led to the droplets of blood at the bottom of the steps—and a very maniacal-looking mushroom standing over a girl with long black hair draped over agate grey eyes…

Andrew's eyes widen.

_Grey eyes._

'_Is that…_'

Without even a sliver of hesitation, he sprints over to the girl, mana tingling at his fingertips…

* * *

Pushing herself up by the arms once again, she grunts—what a frail attempt. Even _she_ knew she had no core strength.

Falling down on the floor again, she winces as her cheek meets the ground stained scarlet without the energy to even speak, much less scream for help. Who would help her anyway?

What help could even come to her aid in a forest so quiet, and so empty?

The mushroom, she imagines, would cackle maniacally if it could from the top of the step above her.

"… Myu."

'_Sayonara, sweetheart,_' is what her mind translates the nonsensical syllable to.

Preparing for painful impact, Cecelia winces and holds her hands over her head in a frail attempt to shield herself—

"_Holy Arrow!_"

Opening one eye, she witnesses the mushroom squeal, as it melts back in to the ground, leaving behind a small coin and its orange, yellow-spotted cap.

"Hey!"

The voice is faded.

"Are you alright there?"

Cecelia lifts her head up to sight him—or, rather, _it_.

_It_ is wearing a strange outfit; a canary yellow cap fashioned to appear to be a duck's head, a dark blue speedo, of all things… To top it all off, an artificial chipmunk tail for a cape.

_This_, right here, is the person who just saved her life.

'_Oh my God…_' Cecelia mentally cringes, _'Why…_'

If she could have afforded it—and had she the means to do so—Cecelia would have banged her head on a desk. Repeatedly.

'_Get that horrible outfit out of my eyes!_'

He drops his ducky floating tube, as he holds his hand out to help Cecelia up.

"I-I'm fine…" she lies through gritted teeth, trying to wipe the blood off her forehead and side of her mouth, only to wince in pain as her fingers brush over an open wound.

'_Perfectly fine,_' the other part of her sneers as she hisses in pain.

Her heart skips a beat as she feels a hand hover over her head, an unfamiliar warm sensation coursing through her.

A brilliant green light bubbles around her, and the boy—who appeared no older than thirteen or fourteen—smirks.

"Hold still," he laughs, "You liar."

As the boy helps Cecelia up, she clears her throat.

"Thanks." She stammers curtly, dusting herself off, taking her time to inspect the boy.

Standing up with shaky legs, she raises an eyebrow as she looks him up and down.

'_Saved by a boy who's about a head shorter than me,_' she muses, '_Life is wonderful right now._'

"Meh," he shrugs his shoulders, looking to the side in feeble attempt to break her glare, "It was the least I could do."

A pause sits between them.

"So, uh," the boy-cleric offers his hand, "I'm Andrew."

"My name's Cecelia," she stiffly places her hand in his.

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah."

Silence ensues once more.

"Hey, uh…" he questions, raising his eyebrow, "Why do you look like you just stepped out of Lith Harbour?"

As she glances at the broken wooden stick besides her, he directs his gaze towards it. A smirk playing on his lips, he shakes his head.

"Tsk tsk!" Andrew laughs, brilliant green eyes flashing under jet black bangs, "Grendel won't be too happy."

"Shut up…" Cecelia returns his smirk—though hers is considerably more derisive.

He digs in to his pockets, pulling out a crystal wand.

He pokes her arm with it, and nods his head towards her.

"Here."

"Oh, no," Cecelia shakes her head, "I can't take it…"

Nonetheless, Andrew scoffs, flinging it towards her.

"What kind of mage _are_ you if you don't have a wand to cast spells with?"

Cecelia catches the heavy wand, the polished silver ice cold under her pale fingers.

"You don't want to die…" he continues, raising an eyebrow, "Do you?"

Her eyes widen, as she steps back, both hands now grasping the wand. She holds it in front of her as though it is a dagger.

"O-Of course not…!"

He gazes forward, past her shoulders, and into the forest, glowing with the sunlight blocked out by the treetops—brimming with monsters and danger.

Andrew turns to her again, eyes narrowed.

"Cecelia…" he asks in all seriousness, "Do you know how to protect yourself, Cecelia?"

"Curl up into a ball," she says, "Scream my lungs out. Maybe cry, too. Crying works, because then the bishounen male protagonist with an eight pack is going to come and save me. Manga says so."

'_Way to set feminism back fifty years, Cecelia. You rock._'

Andrew lets out a wry laugh.

"You make it sound like we're in a storybook."

Cecelia simply blinks in response.

"No wonder you got beaten up by a mushroom," he says, "I thought you were a novice magician. As in, a _straight from Grendel's library_ novice."

"Wouldn't oversized mushrooms freak you out, too?"

"Hm, yeah," Andrew hums, "They've gotten bigger recently, since there's a better food supply up here in Ellinia…"

Cecelia grimaces, '_I forgot these things are actually commonplace here…_'

"Y-Yeah," she stammers, "That's it."

Andrew sighs.

"Look, I'd get going and all," he runs a hand through his hair, "But I'd hate to just leave you alone here and get beaten up by snails."

Cecelia's eyes widen.

"The _snails_ got bigger, too?"

Andrew suppresses his smirk.

"Yeah," he nods, "They grow to be about as big as your arm around these parts of Victoria."

She stretches her arm, the fear etched so deep into her features that Andrew can't help but blurt out the next thing he wishes to say:

"There are plenty of snails around Ellinia, too," he pretends not to notice Cecelia's lip quivering, "Because there are leaves everywhere, you know? Fairies also like to keep herb gardens!"

"_Aaaaah_—"

"—Hahahahahaha!"

Face still flushed, and eyes riddled with fear, Cecelia simply blinks at Andrew.

"Haha! God!" he says in between guffaws of laughter, "Hahaha! You didn't think I was being—haha—_serious_, did you!"

Cecelia grits her teeth—if her wand were still made of wood, it would have splintered under her firm grip.

Andrew, on the other hand, still continues to laugh his guts out.

"I'll make my way to, uh…"

She frowns—where _was_ she going? Beating up monsters to sell their carcasses certainly wasn't a viable option anymore.

"I have nothing better to do today—"

"—than mock girls who are nearly twice as tall as you are and could beat you up in a heartbeat and _wouldn't hesitate to_?"

"And are afraid of snails too boot," he teases, "Yeah, sure. I have nothing better to do with my life."

Cecelia rolls her eyes.

"Really, though," Andrew laughs, "You're bluffing, aren't you?"

"O-Of course I can cast magic," she narrows her eyes, "And use spells, and stuff…"

Andrew's grin only grows wider.

"I have a knack for knowing when people are lying, see."

"Of course," Cecelia grins, "I'm always lying."

"I _knew_ it—"

"But if the next thing I say is true," she begins, "and I say that the last thing I said was a lie, would you believe me?"

Andrew continues to smile, though, this time, he raises an eyebrow.

"Doctor Who, huh?"

"My friend gave me that one—she's obsessed with shows like that."

"… Nice."

Cecelia, as he nods in approval, manages to tear herself from his grasp.

"Alright then. Nice talking to you. Bye!"

"Wait!"

Cecelia whips around.

'_Why…_'

"What _now_?"

"You really don't know how to use magic, do you?"

"You really do have a knack for knowing if people are lying or not."

"I was serious about not wanting you to get beat up by a snail, you know—if you can get beaten up by a mushroom…"

"Oh, puh-_lease_," Cecelia rolls her eyes, "That only happened ten minutes ago. Get over it, won't you?"

Andrew places a finger on his chin pensively.

"You know," he begins, "Since I'm feeling nice today, and I have nothing else to do…"

"Yeah?"

"How about I teach you the ways of a magician?"

Cecelia cringes.

"Just like all the fanfiction says?"

"What?"

"N-Nothing…"

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?" Andrew laughs, "Come on, it won't take that long…"

* * *

… Cecelia slumps on the floor, arms spread out in defeat as her back hits the mossy ground, sore in places where she thought it wasn't possible.

"This may very well kill me," she says.

"Yeah," Andrew sighs, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Your mana control's horrible. Sorry."

Cecelia rolls her eyes, '_Mana doesn't exist in real life, that's why. Even if it _really_ did, we have technology, anyway._'

She furrows her brow, when a question pops up in her head.

"Hey."

He pulls out another small bottle—the size of his forefinger—of blue liquid out of his pocket.

"Yeah?" he bites the cork off, as he sits down, placing the potion into Cecelia's open palm.

She sits up.

"What is mana?" she brings the glass bottle to her lips.

As she throws her head back, downing it in one gulp, she almost regurgitates the bitter liquid. She grimaces, wiping the edge of her lip with the back of her hand, wondering where fanfictions get the notion that blue potions were supposed to taste like blueberries.

Andrew blinks at her question, crossing his legs as he grabs another potion.

"Blueberries…" Cecelia mutters under her breath, "That author doesn't know what blueberries tastes like—it tastes like sweat and the souls of small children…"

"Wha—?" He frowns, "What about blueberries?"

"You never answered my question," Cecelia interjects, eyes still shut as she digests the taste.

'_No more,_' she pushes away the next bottle he offers her.

He blows a couple of strands of hair away from his face, as he takes off his cap, scratching the back of his head, "Man. I actually have no idea. It kinda came naturally to me, so I can't really… explain it. Sorry."

'_Even the game mechanics don't make sense to the people who actually _live_ in this world,_' her other self hums, '_Incredible._'

Cecelia nods slowly.

"So how will I ever end up learning all of this stuff?" she sighs, "It just doesn't make sense to me, that's all…"

With a sigh, he gets up on his two feet.

"Look, it goes like this…"

He extends his forearm, biting the edge of his lip in concentration, as he grabs the edge of the ducky tube, a ball of bright blue light forming at the beak.

"_Energy Bolt!_"

Cecelia's mouth gapes open as the sparkling ball of electricity shakes the thick trunk of a tree.

"How do you do that?"

He walks over to Cecelia and lifts her arm up a little bit, and adjusts her posture.

"See, here, you should conjure your mana, then, y'know," he shrugs, stepping back, "Cast it."

Cecelia gives an agitated smirk—was that a vein that just popped in her head?

_Fizzle._

_Crack._

"Conjure your mana?" she growls.

"Yeah, like Naruto."

"And how does _Naruto_ do it, exactly?"

He shrugs once more—the flames of rage bubble over.

"He conjures his chakra and uses it to—"

_Zap._

"You _dipshit_!"

Andrew's mouth is parted in shock, as his back hits the floor.

"You are _the_ worst teacher, I swear to God!" she seethes, the tip of her wand still smoking.

He feebly attempts to stand up, still bathed by green light as a smile creeps up his face, cracking the soot built up on his cheeks.

"H-Hey," he begins to laugh, one eye still shut in pain, "Haha, hey! You did it!"

Cecelia's grip on her wand loosens.

"Did _what_?" she spits, genuinely confused.

Andrew wipes the soot off his arms, "_Someone_ obviously didn't add enough points to their intelligence."

Silently cheering to herself in her head, Cecelia does not have the energy to do anything but smile softly.

'_I did it!_'

"Now," he approaches her, smelling significantly burnt, "We should get started on magic claw…"

The lower levelled magician, suddenly pumped again, gets back in to a battle stance. Sure, she's only gotten the hang of one spell, but it was a good start.

For now, she should just take baby steps towards her main goal.

As he stands behind her again, she frowns.

What _is_ her main goal, anyway?

'_I'd always planned for this character to be a cleric,_' she muses, '_so… I suppose that's what I'll strive to be._'

Smiling, his words of instruction—"You need to stand this way, and swing your wand this way…"—simply fly over her head, as her mind swirls with thoughts.

'_I suppose this is a beginning._'

"And you can fire another one if you go back to this position…"

'_Because if I'm going to be in this game…_'

Cecelia smiles, nodding idly at his teachings—not that it would have made any difference whether she actually listened to them or not.

'_I might as well play, right?_'


	3. A Perfect World

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Eleanor scoffs at the piece of paper she holds in her hand, sprawled out on the luxurious wine-coloured leather arm chair.

"_Pathetic_."

The burly man in the crimson sofa beside her raises an eyebrow, glancing over to the sheet of paper she scans her violet eyes over.

'_MapleStory: Resistance_' the block letters on the promotion poster read.

"I look so short at that angle," she points to a picture of herself in the corner of the page, rolling her eyes, "And they show my eyes, too, it makes me look even younger. Now I look like a prepubescent idiot!"

"You don't look _that_ bad."

She huffs indignantly, attempting to throw the sheet across the room in rage, only for it to float back to her feet. Disdainfully crinkling her nose at the parchment, she nudges it with her toe, and it glides across the cool marble.

It collides with a wooden doll, lifted up by shining golden strings of light attached to a certain green-haired boy's fingers. Francis looks up at her with his wide eyes from across the room, thin fingers twitching, as he lets out a sigh. The doll moves accordingly, picking up the sheet of paper and transporting it to the witch.

"Here you go," he grumbles, voice muffled as he looks down.

Eleanor rolls her eyes, as she picks up the poster, not daring look at it again – where did they even get a picture of her anyway?

Ah, no matter. Where they get these ridiculously unflattering pictures is only a trivial matter, isn't it? Indeed, there are far greater things to be worrying about.

Eleanor narrows her eyes, '_Like funds._'

As Francis draws his hand back, the doll is back in his grasp. Eleanor crumpled up the promotional poster in her hand, flinging it into the wastebasket.

Baroq sighs, trying to break the silence, glancing at both of them, "Say, have you both found any recruits yet?"

Eleanor shrugs, her legs hanging off the arm of her chair.

"Hm, not _recruited_, per se. Though a couple of people applied," she yawns, "But _none_ of them fit the criteria. _None_! Not a single one! Can you believe that?"

"Of _course_ I believe that. You need to be less harsh with those applications."

"Oh, shut up, you. It ensures that only the best join our ranks," she purses her lips in distaste, "Unlike the…"

'Resistance' is the word that she is unable to snarl.

All in the meanwhile, Francis finds himself shifting nervously as he watches the exchange.

Baroq sneers, his voice low enough that even _he_ could barely hear himself, "It ensures that our numbers are dwindling, that's for certain…"

Unfortunately for him, Eleanor has a very sharp sense of hearing. She turns her head to the side, shooting him a death glare. His eyes widen for a split second, as her palm glowers a soft shade of lavender.

"I'm _sorry_, Baroq?" she questions derisively.

He gulps, trying to keep his expression in a deadpan. Certainly, Eleanor had the capacity to kill him, or, well… anyone she wanted, for that matter. But, also certainly, she wouldn't bring herself to kill him.

Baroq gulps. On the other hand, she wouldn't hesitate to let out bottled stress, even if it _did_ mean permanently maiming him.

"N-Nothing," a nervous grin creeps up his features, "I said nothing."

"_Really_ now–"

"Francis?" Swiftly, before he could even respond, Baroq finds his gaze directed at Francis, "How many did _you_ recruit?"

Francis lets out another sigh. There was no point in hiding it, he decided.

"I didn't go outside the headquarters for the past week," the boy responds nonchalantly, before Eleanor could say or do anything to poor Baroq, placing her hand back in her lap as the fluorescent light fades away.

"Are you serious?"

Nodding, the ten year old continues to play with the wooden skeleton of a doll. Baroq begins to pinch the bridge of his nose, with an aggravated sigh.

"You _do_ realize we need to overpower the resistance to revive the Black Mage and be granted unlimited power, _right_?" he looks to both of them.

When he elicits no response, he slumps back in his chair.

Francis glances up at Baroq, before looking down to the blank eyes of his doll again.

"Oh, what do you mean?" he replies, "Half the population of Edelstein is more than enough, if you ask me."

Eleanor attempts to hide the smirk twitching at the edge of her lip.

"And guess what organization the other half the Edelstein joined?" Baroq sneers, "We need to _try_ to get people in to the Black Wings. We don't have enough people volunteering for our cause."

Francis' gaze darkens, '_What cause?_'

"Well, so _what_ if the Resistance has more manpower?" his tone is of mockery, "Quality is better than quanti—"

"You have to recruit one more member within the next week, Francis." he interrupts irately.

"Eh?"

"Convince _one_ person to join the Black Wings," he says flippantly, "C'mon, I'm giving you the entire week. It shouldn't be _too_ hard."

"Well, then, how?" he says meekly, "I'm not a manipulative weirdo. Unlike _some_ people."

"Y'know, just… use your puppet powers on them or something."

Francis frowns, "B-But…"

Baroq gets up from the leather couch.

"No '_buts_'! Our numbers are limited!"

He walks to the door to the other side of the room, "The first thing you'll do tomorrow is make your way to the Six Path Crossway, and convince the first promising adventurer you can find."

"Yeah, b-but everyone's after me!" he whines melodramatically, "I'm going to _die_!"

Eleanor offers what she hopes is a sympathetic smile.

"Francis, dear…"

He places his hand on the silver knob of the door, glancing behind him.

"One. Week."

The sound of the door being slammed shut behind Baroq echoes through the room.

Peering at the door, Eleanor feels her face scrunching into a frown.

"Tight-arse…" She grumbles, taking a long look at her perfectly manicured nails, as though they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

* * *

Lying under the twinkling night sky, Cecelia looks to the boy that lies beside her, subtle outlines of his features painted by silver moonlight.

"Thanks for the training, by the way." she says softly, smiling. He can't see it, however, because they are both masked by the dark of midnight.

Even though it was just one day, they'd somehow managed to develop a strong bond through arduous training.

'_Just like the real game, eh?_' Cecelia smiles.

Getting someone as slow as Cecelia to learn two spells in the span of one day was a task that involved many trials, just as many failures, and little reward for such a great effort.

Now they both—battered, bruised and _completely_ wasted—lie under the starry night sky, basking in the feeling of accomplishment.

"You better be thankful," he sneers, "You're so dense, it took so long to teach you _two_ _lousy spells_!"

The creaking of the ancient floorboard could be heard, before he suddenly sits up, clutching his stomach in pain, after feeling a solid blunt object slab in to his abdomen.

"Shut up, you're ruining the mood." she pouts, lying back down. She hears him grunt in pain and, by some sadistic measure; she feels her lips curl in to a smile.

"Ooh," he coos mockingly, "Getting romantic, are we?"

Cecelia rolls her eyes, her smile widening at his inherently humorous immaturity. There is a pregnant pause, before she can hear him chuckle from her left.

"You're _way_ too old for me, anyway." he sticks his tongue out at her again.

"Keh!" Cecelia scoffs in a seemingly demeaning manner, "It's past your bedtime, child."

"You're right." he doesn't take note of the sarcasm laced through her last sentence thanks to his exhaustion, before stifles a yawn, "I'm going to call it a night. It was nice meeting you, Cecelia."

"I'll say the same to you, Andy." she replies, turning to him with a smile.

"Don't call me that, for the love of God."

"Sorry, _sorry_."

With a yawn, he gets up from the mossy forest floor, and orange magic emanates from his palms, and the tips of his fingers. He looks down to Cecelia, and back to his palms.

Before he casts his spell, he looks back to her.

"Hey," he says drowsily, "Do you want to stay at my place? It gets pretty cold out here around this time of year."

She blinks, and she opens her mouth to say '_yes, please_', but the words are caught on her tongue.

This young boy has been so hospitable to her already—even if said hospitality came in the form of him failing to attempt to teach her magic. How is it that he's still offering her food, and a roof over her head!

Her mouth waters at the thought of a warm meal, body aching for a warm bed. Surely, it was an offer she couldn't—or, rather, _shouldn't—_refuse, but... What else can she do?

She can't make him go through even more trouble just for _her_. That's simply beyond unreasonable.

"Oh, I have a place to stay," she forces a smile, "Don't worry about it."

Andrew, perhaps too tired or too callous to notice or care, doesn't sense the waver in her voice. With a shrug, he turns away from her.

"Alright, if you insist..." the orange light in his palm forms in to a circle, surrounded by mysterious circles, as he casts, "_Mystic Door."_

As he tentatively places his hand over the knob of the door, he takes one last glance at her, sprawled out on the floor with her eyes shut. She's not going to sleep out _here_, is she?

"Just walk through this door if you change your mind," he begins, "I only learned the spell like last week so the door doesn't last longer than twenty seconds, though. Get in quick if you want to come along, it's too dangerous to walk all the way back if you suddenly change your mind."

Cecelia gulps at the thought of predator mushrooms and snails the size of her legs.

"I-I'll be fine."

"Alright then," he raises an eyebrow, "Just get home safe, alright?"

"Okay."

Before he can hear her reply, the door fizzles away. Cecelia sighs at her stubborn stupidity, and the sound is carried away by the evening breeze. Ignoring the numbness at the tip of her fingers, and the goose-bumps growing on her arms, she curls up into a ball.

'_Maybe I should have taken up the offer, after all._'

The last thing she sights is the door disappearing into oblivion as she falls into deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

"Oh, Cecelia…"

The older woman smiles and shakes her head, laugh lines evident as she gazes at the mess of a girl that was her daughter.

She'd gotten home so late from her shift last night that she didn't even bother to check the time, let alone the kitchen, and went straight to take a shower and snuggle under her silk covers.

Had she found her daughter in this state the night before, she would have dragged her upstairs with her.

She shakes her head, a wistful smile playing on her lips, "Cecelia, Cecelia…"

The girl was sprawled out over the table which had her maths, English, science and history text books were spread across, her head resting on her laptop's keyboard—a most unhealthy way to sleep, though better than not sleeping at all.

The laptop seems to have crashed, the screen flashing in too-bright magenta, turquoise, eye-burning fluorescent yellow…

Mallory saunters over to her, mentally noting that she needs to tell Cecelia she needs to remind her to get her laptop fixed or replaced, no matter how expensive it is. It is vital for her education, or so Cecelia says. However, when she sees her playing games, reading these 'tumblr' entries, and visiting social networking sites to 'Like' someone's status, she has her doubts.

"Get up, dear, I need to send you to Chinese school."

Her daughter is silent, mouth hanging half open. Cecelia's mother huffs, before shaking her.

"It's already eight thirty, Cecelia."

Her arm falls limp, as it slips off the edge of the table. Mallory raised an eyebrow. Sure, her daughter was a heavy sleeper, but even _she_ would have woken up by now.

"Cecelia?" she questions sharply, in a more stern voice this time.

Still, she does not answer.

"Cecelia," her tone grows dark, "This isn't funny at all."

When her daughter doesn't even snore in response as she usually would, her eyes widen in panic.

"Cecelia!"

Mallory tries to swallow the lump forming in her throat in spite of everything.

"_Cecelia_!"

* * *

"Wake up, _wake up_, everyone!" Eleanor chirps in a sing-song voice as she usually does every morning, opening the dark grey curtains of the cabin with a sadistic smile on her painted lips.

To this, she is met with muffled groans of frustration by the two of them, lying on the flimsy-looking bunk bed.

"A few more minutes, Eleanor…" Baroq grumbles, pulling the covers over his head.

All Francis does in response is moan, attempting to pull his body out from under the scratchy covers, but to no avail. He slumps back down onto his rock-hard pillow, eyelids still heavy.

"You guys do a _great_ job at getting up in the morning…" she rolls her eyes.

"It _can't_ be morning!" Francis whines.

She pulls off the cover from above him, "You _must_ make your way to the ferry, Francis."

Francis curls up into a ball, shivering at the sudden surge of chilly air.

"B-But it's still _dark_–"

"And you, Baroq, need to get started on some of those missions," she proceeds to throw them both their trademark Black Wings cloaks, "Now, if you don't mind me, I'm off to eat some breakfast, and probably get some paperwork signed."

She turns on her heel, buttoning her magenta cloak, dragging along the floor with each step she takes.

"_Ciao_!" is all she says as the door is slammed shut.

Grudgingly, Francis drags himself out of the lower bunk, pulling his hooded cloak over his head.

"Francis, remember."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he mutters, "Goddess, stop pestering me about it…"

'_To the Six Path Crossway…_' he thinks with the least amount of enthusiasm humanely possible, as he makes his way out of the Black Wings headquarters.

Walking through the eerily quiet streets of Edelstein at the peak of dawn, Francis manages to find his way through the town by the fluorescent street lights that shone above him, stepping along the cobblestone path. He clutches his cloak towards himself tighter, clenching his teeth as he runs through the gate swiftly, the icy coldness cutting in to his skin.

Once there, he is met by a man, cleaning against the wall lazily, pilot goggles covering his eyes. He has the trademark pilot cap atop his head, tufts of crimson hair sticking out at unnatural angles from his beige skullcap.

Francis takes some coins out of his pouch.

"E-Excuse me? Ace?"

He pokes the pilot on the shoulder, eliciting a snort. He frowns.

"Ace?"

_Poke._

"Ace?"

He slaps him in the shoulder with his pouch of mesos,

"_Ace_!"

"Wha-?" he jolts awake, looking around, before he spots the little boy, eight golden coins sparkling in his palm, "Oh, it's you."

Francis blinks, eyes still droopy, "It's me."

"What are you doing up so early, Francis?" he outstretches his palm, "You usually leave for your missions in the afternoon."

"Baroq."

"Ah," he unhinges the door of what appears to be a hot air balloon.

The red-haired man gestures to the little ship-balloon, slightly rusted from lack of use. Needless to say, after the invasion, Edelstein wasn't exactly the most popular travel destination.

"Hop on in, kiddo."

With a gulp, Francis steps off the steel platform and on to the ship.

And, with his heart thudding in his rib cage, while it sinks slightly as he steps foot in it, and now hovers mere inches from the ground from his weight, Francis begins to pray to a God he doesn't even believe in.

"Help me, help me, " he chants, "Help me, _help me…_"

The pilot slams the door, locking it tight so that Francis wouldn't fall out of the ship in mid-air and lose his life, and lose Ace his decent-paying job.

The machine whirrs to life, the gears grinding against each other, as the elliptical balloon takes him high in to the air. He feels his stomach lurch, as the ship jolts forward too quickly.

"Helpmehelpme_helpme_…"

As he peers over the edge with wide eyes, he knows that he's well on his way when all he sees is fluffy white clouds covering what would have been a bird's eye view of Edelstein.

Francis is too tired to even squeal in fear.

* * *

Cecelia shivers, as she feels her eyelids fluttering open, adjusting to bright the morning light that shines from above.

Sitting up, she winces as her body is completely stiff, which she presumes is from lack of a hot, relaxing shower and a proper, fluffy bed.

She shakes her head and pulls herself away from these thoughts, knowing that she would not be getting either of those things for a long, long time, much to her dismay. She feels like there's a layer of grime growing on her skin already…

Shrugging it off, she continues to take in the serene surroundings, gulping in a lungful of fresh, chilly morning air. Sadly, she's still in Ellinia, but what has Cecelia got to complain about?

It's beautiful, sure, but it's not home.

"Whatever, I'm an explorer now…" she says cheerily, extending her arms over her head to stretch her spine, "I get to go where ever the hell I want! The _world_ is my home."

'_And_ where_ is this 'where ever the hell you want' that you speak of?_' she hears herself sneer.

Cecelia frowns, stopping mid-step.

"I… I don't know."

Her shoulder slumping, she stands in front of a mass of swirling blue light wearing a frown that she feared would perpetually adorn her features.

"I don't even know what I don't know," she sighs, "But I know that I don't really care."

With this, she jumps in to the portal in front of her, not even knowing if this feeling at the pit of her stomach is excitement or dread.

* * *

Francis feels his breath hitch in his throat as the ship begins its epic descent, cutting through the clouds and back in to too-bright daylight.

'_Don't think about it._'

Perhaps, at this speed, the ship would burst into flames and he'd burn in a fiery death before crash-landing; perhaps his sacrifice would be worth it, as he burns down the forests of Ellinia along with him.

'_Don't. Think. About. It._'

He feels himself covering his eyes with his sleeve, both out of fear that he'll hyperventilate and pass out, dropping out of the ship if he sees how far above the ground he is, and the fact that his eyes haven't quite adjusted to the light yet.

'_Don't–_'

"Gah…" he mutters, as the ship grinds to a screeching halt, and he hears the door unlatch.

Opening his eyes slowly, he meets the gaze of someone who looks to be Ace's identical twin—possibly a freak result of one of those experiments they'd been doing recently.

Francis steps off the ferry, finally able to breathe again as he steps back on to land—the air trapped inside the force field is… stagnant, at best; suffocating, at worst.

Suddenly, the unfamiliar voice of a girl rings out.

"Shut up… I just don't know where I am…"

* * *

Pressing her lips together nervously, Cecelia's face is flushed out of embarrassment at the thought of what she looks like at that very moment in time, fumbling with her pockets in a frail attempt to find the world map.

'_You don't care about where you're going, eh?_'

"Shut up… I just don't know where I am…" she grumbles.

She makes her way out of the forest after walking for what seemed to be a very long time through untamed vines in fear that the floorboards will snap beneath her weight and make her fall to her untimely death.

In the centre of the vast, grassy field she stands in, there is a large tree that stretches up to the sky and beyond the clouds.

Cecelia looks up at the azure blue sky, squinting as she uses a hand as a visor. The sky is too blue, the clouds are too white, and the sun is always shining too brightly.

"It's _too_ perfect," she rolls her eyes, "Holy crap…"

'_Well, this game was made for kids, after all._'

"Eh, good point."

If Maple Story decided to become gothic and less childish, many of the ten year olds that corrupt the community would probably leave because their parents find it 'inappropriate.' However, for Nexon, this would mean less children stealing money from their parent's wallets, which equals less profit.

Therefore, they simplify the game _even_ further to suit these children's needs, thus peeving off older players who have half a brain, and making even the most dedicated veteran MapleStory players quit out of sheer rage.

Nexon knows, however, that those older players _will_ come back, because this game is too addicting to quit forever. Cecelia sighs. She is living proof, after all.

As Cecelia smiles at herself like a crazed maniac in spite of herself, her chain of thoughts is broken by a rustle of leaves. Turning around cautiously, her fingers wrap tighter around the thin metal wand.

"Who's there?"

The magician is met with silence, though she swears that she sees a dark shadow in the bushes.

* * *

'_Damn it…_' he thinks.

Frantically, Francis reaches for a small grey pebble from beside him, and chucks it to the other side of the path.

He doesn't have any idea why he was following this strange girl to where ever she was going, and he has even less of an idea as to why she's talking to herself, but he still stays close behind her, watching intently.

There is a mysterious air surrounding her, different to all the adventurers who had crossed his path, save for one.

* * *

_The cleric boy peered at the puppeteer from underneath his black bangs, eyes darkening as they glared at each other for several moments too long. His lips curved into a smile._

_"No," his voice was firm, decisive, "No, I do not fear death."_

* * *

His eyes widen. This aura, he has sensed it all too often from him, especially when he said _that_. Perhaps that same boy, and this girl…

Francis shuts his eyes tight, before the memory developed into anything more. No, not right now. He has work to do.

Ducking back in to the bushes, he continues to watch.

* * *

Cecelia hears another sound coming from the other side of the footpath, followed by another rustle in the bushes. She turns back to where that little green shadow was in disbelief, but it was gone.

"This stupid world's making me delusional," she shakes her head, continuing on her way.

'_You were _already_ delusional.'_

"A crazy, _crazy_ girl in a _crazily_ perfect world," she smirks, "Sounds good to me!"

The smile disappeared off her face as suddenly as it had appeared, as she saw that same shadow flickering into the bushes out of the corner of her eye. She gulped.

"A _crazy_ girl in a _crazily_ perfect world," she mutters, as she climbs in to the next portal, "Where even _crazier_ people decide to waste their time stalking _me_, of all people_…_"


	4. Interlude

**Chapter 4: Interlude  
****Written by **_**princess-kally**_

(**A/N / Disclaimer by**_** Epic Writing Fail)**_ Hello everyone! I am proud to announce that someone has finally offered to write the latest chapter!  
That being said, I would like to point out that I don't actually own this; I'm only posting it.

I hope you enjoy our latest instalment, written by the great _princess-kally_!

… But seriously, she's a _really_ good writer.  
I'm jealous. :c

oOoOo

"Tight arse..." Eleanor grumbles, taking a long look at her perfectly manicured nails, as though they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Eleanor doesn't like being alone.

When she is alone, she reflects... And remembers. And Eleanor really hates remembering.

_Death, darkness, madness and the smell of burnt flesh._

Her hands clench, nails digging into tender flesh. She will cleanse this world, and bring a utopia (of darkness, of peace) upon them.

_The screams of a child as she is tortured (LadyCygnus,LordGrendel,AnybodyPlease-PleaseHelpMyBabySister) for the location of a loved one who she will never betray..._

Eleanor will cleanse this world of hypocrites like Cygnus.

_There is a pulse of magic, warm and loving. The portal begins to close. "I'm sorry darling." She opens her mouth to say something (stop stop stop stop stop, don't go, don't go, DON'T GO!) but her window of opportunity is gone, and _**they **_are gone, so she'll never see them again._

She will cleanse the filth, and empower the loyal.

_**Child.  
**__**Look at me, Child.**_

_She looks, because there is power in that voice, power she wants. Power for vengeance._

_**Good. **__She shivers, because there is a dark pleasure, a dark triumph that washes over her, only__it's not hers, it is... 'It's... __**I like the look in your eyes.**_

_**Join the Black Wings and work towards the Black Mage's revival... In exchange... He will return to you your **__**blood-sister.**_

_She gasps, because was not necromancy one of the forbidden arts? Whilst it was true that __bishops could revive the dead, they only had a small window of opportunity, and you could not__revive something that which had had its soul torn and thrown asunder into the depths of time __and space._

_"The Black Mage?" She cannot help but ask (hesitant, tentative, because there is malice, maliceand unbelievable power in that voice), because he was the boogeyman of legends._

_Cloth is moved and suddenly, 'it' became a he, a he with a scarred face and broken eyes. A different person entirely._

_"Little girl, we all have our own reasons working for him. But know this: What he promises, he must give. Or else."_

_Eleanor remembers her mother's warnings._

_**Do not talk to strangers, do not accept their help.  
We live in a dangerous world...**_

_But mother isn't here anymore to stop her. Not anymore._

_"I'll come with you." Resolute, firm and decisive. She will have her vengeance._

_The stranger, the scarred man who sports a scarred face and stares at her with broken, broken eyes, sighs, and something, an unidentified emotion (pity? amusement? hate?) flashes through his eyes. It goes by quickly, and she thinks nothing of it._

_He chuckles._

_"I'll drink to that, little girl..."_

_And suddenly, as if by magic, there are two classes and a bottle of 18th century wine. He fills them both to the brim and picks one up. Eleanor is young, but she knows what she has to do._

_She raises her glass - raises it in a toast._

_"To the Black Mage."_

Eleanor's mouth curves into a smile as she awakens from her reverie. With a lazy flick of her fingers, a two glasses and a bottle of 18th century wine appear.

She pours fills them both to the brim, and picks one up and raises it.

"To the Black Mage."

The shadow chuckles.

"I'll drink to that, little girl."

oOoOo

Baroq pounds heavily on the bathroom door.

"What is it?" A muffled voice calls out.

"We've got a report. We've found her."

The door opens, and Eleanor appears, clad in a fluffy red bathrobe. She raises an elegant eyebrow.

"So slow?" There is amusement in her voice, amusement and sadistic joy.

Baroq frowns at her. "You know how much work we've been bogged down with, especially with all the paperwork."

He grumbles something under his breath about recruiting a few people just to get some of the paper work done.

Eleanor simply smirks.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Remember," she chortles. "Quality over quantity."

Eleanor gives him a mockery of a wave and walks off.

"Give me five minutes."

oOoOo

An ominous wind blows across the grass field. It is cold, but the girl does not allow herself to shiver- to show weakness. If not for the clouds that blocked the sky, it would be a sunny day.

Perhaps today, the weather gods had decided to develop a strange sense of humour, the girl thinks. The sun was hope, and the clouds the ones who blocked it. Poetic, but ultimately useless to her continued survival.

She stands perfectly still, carefully schools her face into polite blankness and, tired of waiting, the girl takes the initiative.

"To what occasion do I owe the honour of having two of the Black Mage's elite visit me?" She drawls. The girl is careful to be polite, but not condensing.

The man- whose name she does not know- speaks up,

"You have two choices," he says darkly, "Join us or die."

His female partner frowns at him, before discreetly elbowing him. She makes a shallow curtsey, then coldly smiles at her.

"Forgive my partner's rudeness. I am Eleanor, the Black Witch," she gestures to the man on her left, "and he is Baroq."

"Master of Disguise?"

Eleanor frowns at the interruption, but continues regardless.

"Indeed. We are the agents assigned to find you after one of our higher level agents were destroyed by a girl..." she begins, "By _you_, Lady Reina."

The girl- Reina, raises an eyebrow. Most impressive. Not that she would expect any less from the elite.

"Vengeance?"

"No. We are here to invite you to join our organisation, as my partner rather brutishly declared."

"And if were to decline?"

The air is suddenly charged with an electric tension. Eleanor gracefully lifts her staff and points it at her, magic crackling along its tip. Reina is mesmerised by it, because no matter what the Black Witch does, she makes it look elegant.

Baroq is drawing arcane symbols in the air with his hands, and when Reina notices, it is too late. The warm, familiar buzz of her mana is gone.

"Then you die."

oOoOo


	5. Captive

**Chapter 5**

Cecelia feels her steps getting sharper and quicker, and, despite her leg's protests, she continues to walk hastily, looking behind her every five or ten seconds to make sure that her follower was no longer there.

The strange, dark aura that surrounded the bushes when she brushed past them at the Hill East of Henesys, it was still there, never ceasing to disturb her, never fading.

Even after walking through several portals, a steep hill, the maze of Henesys Pet Park, and the hell that was the noisy market of Henesys—where the merchants went wild trying to sell her wands, chaos scrolls, shoes and the like—this strange person _still_ followed her!

'_Maybe no-one's following you at all, you paranoid weirdo,_' she tries hard to assure herself, taking in deep breaths, and slowly exhaling.

"Maybe they're not…"

She feels her steps slowing down to a relaxing stroll, and she closes her eyes as she continues to crush more blades of grass with those boots of hers.

"Maybe they're not."

A rustle in the trees overhead is when Cecelia suddenly breaks out in to a sprint, clenching tighter on to her wand.

Maybe she was just being paranoid.

Maybe, _just_ maybe, she was just imagining it all—

Two strong hands clamp down on her shoulder, and she feels her heart rate spike.

"_Boo_!"

Turning around briskly, without much hesitation, she swings her wand in the direction of the ominous voice.

"**_Aaaaah!_**"

She hits something solid, and a pained wail could be heard through the forest; so loud that it nearly ruptured Cecelia's eardrums, making birds fly out of the trees from the sudden noise.

"O-Oh my God!" she clamps a hand over her mouth, kneeling down to help the boy, her eyes displaying a mixture of distress and concern.

He simply moans in response, clutching at his head.

As he pulls his hand away slightly to look at it, his palm is covered in crimson. He groans again, too in shock to even complain about the excruciating pain.

Cecelia doesn't dare touch him, for fear of accidentally causing him more harm.

Something green bubbles out of his fingers, and his pained expression slowly becomes calmed, though crimson red still covers half his face from the wound she had afflicted upon him.

"Jesus," Andy lets out a sharp sigh, wiping away blood with the back of his hand, and on to the grass below him with a grimace.

She makes an attempt to look annoyed, though there is a noticeable waver in her voice, "D-Don't scare me like that again!"

She pulls him up from his sitting position.

He chuckles, as he stands up and brushes himself off as if nothing happened.

Cecelia blinks, raising her eyebrow as she looks him up and down.

It seems Andrew has gotten a new look; a striped blue undershirt, paired with matching boxers.

… He isn't wearing much else, aside from a red Lord Pirate's hat.

"What is it?" he questions, inclining his head in genuine confusion.

"What in the _hell_ are you wearing?"

He looks down at himself with an amused smile at Cecelia's bewildered expression. He lowers his obnoxiously large pirate cap,

"Oh," he says sheepishly, with a cheeky grin, "Nothing at all, see."

"I know _that_, moron," Cecelia rollsher eyes.

"I like to call this…" he places his hand on his chin, pensive, "… My party look. I wear the duckie suit thing when I grind."

"So you wear speedos when you train, and you wear next to nothing when you attend parties?" she says, "Classy."

"The monsters die from my sexiness, see."

Cecelia simply rolls her eyes at his remark with a smile.

"I bet they all squeal in horror because their eyes are melting out of their sockets," she retorts.

There is a pause between them, before Andrew retorts,

"… Because of my sexiness?"

She tries to maintain a straight expression, but the edge of her lips curve upwards, as she tries to press her lips together tightly to stifle a giggle.

Cecelia sometimes wonders why she finds him funny. Somehow, there was something about Andrew's immaturity that was just simply laughable, or, perhaps, just highly entertaining.

He joins in after her, and their guffaws of laughter made them both look like they were suffering from a seizure of some sort.

At least, that was what it looked like to Francis…

'_Jesus, they laugh even weirder than both Eleanor and Baroq combined…_'

Soon enough, the laughter dies down and is replaced by a looming silence, broken every now and then by the occasional giggle.

"So, do you want to, uh…" he scratches the back of his head, as he begins to step towards light grey stone steps that led up to the portal, "Grind? Or something?""

Cecelia shrugs her shoulders, before she feels herself following behind him.

"I don't see why not."

Meanwhile, a little green-haired boy saunters in after them reluctantly, although knowing that the insane girl was now joined by an insane boy; she was no longer alone.

* * *

"Do you _not_ value your life, girl?" Eleanor asks exasperatingly, waving about her staff in fury.

The girl's expression remains stoical, though her silver eyes are laced with worry, which she tries hard to hide, as she meets Eleanor's gaze.

Her heart is hammering in her chest, and beads of sweat roll down her face from her forehead. She clenches her fist and swallows her nervousness; no, she _can't_ show fear.

Not in front of _them_.

Reina utters no words, she doesn't even open her mouth to say anything.

The necromancer scoffs, crossing her arms. Eleanor takes her death glare, paired with her silent response as a, '_No, I want to die a horrible, painful death._'

Blinking, she feels her hand tremble. The crackle of magic at the end of her jewelled staff begins to fade.

Why was it so hard this time around? She'd done this so many times before…

Though, even if the girl had a death wish, Eleanor realizes that couldn't kill her if she _tried_.

"What's wrong?" Baroq asks condescendingly, though low enough so that the girl across from them couldn't hear, "You can't kill this one?"

"Not _can't_, I _won't_," she bluffs, "Besides, this one has… Potential, I should say."

"_Potential? _Hah!" he cocks his eyebrow, "The girl doesn't even have a _job_."

Eleanor, swift as always, swings around to her right, and points her dangerous weapon to Baroq, with an evil glint in her eye.

"… Quiet, _you_." she snarls, as the cold metal of her staff meets his chin.

Baroq feels a smug smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, before Eleanor raises her head, glaring at him through silver bangs. His grin falters when his eyes meet Eleanor's cold violet ones, and, for fear of losing his life, he no longer laughs in the face of his colleague.

Twirling around gracefully again, the weapon is pointed at Reina for the second time in an accusing manner, as opposed to a threatening one.

"Should you change your mind, I will ask you once more," she says, the blue jewel embedded in the staff begins to emanate dark purple light,

"Will you join," she begins, and the crackle of her magic is louder.

"Or will you die?" Baroq finishes for her, followed by a wicked laugh.

Eleanor turns her head in Baroq's direction, grumbling in disdain at yet another interruption.

"I refuse to join your organization." she repeats what she said just moments earlier; resolute, determined.

However, there is a slight waver to her voice. Reina closes her eyes as she says this—what she thinks may be her last words—brow furrowed slightly.

Reina is prepared to accept her fate; she wants no part in this, even at the cost of her life. If she had accepted their offer, as prestigious as it was, she would be betraying _her_.

Reina had always wondered what it was like to be taken by the cold hand of death… Does it hurt? It may depend on the way she was to leave this world, she thought. In this case, it would probably hurt a lot more than she'd like, but she's had her fair share of pain in this life.

Maybe you fade away slowly, as you close your eyes and reflect on your achievements in life—or lack thereof.

Do you simply plunge in to darkness, as though you're falling asleep, only you know you're never going to wake up?

Eleanor looks over her pale features. Her quivering lip, twitching brow, her eyes shut tight; _nervousness_, she decides.

"Hm," she huffs, "Then I suppose we have no choice."

Reina feels her jaw tighten, her knuckles white as her sharp nails dig in to soft skin. She may find out _very_ soon…

With a lazy flick of her staff, Eleanor casts, "_Seduce._"

She feels a strange sensation; like pin pricks, then the sensation of, strings yanking at her skin. Her head is pulled back, and Reina's eyes shoot wide open.

"_H-Huh?_"

She wills her arm to move forward and break away from these seemingly delicate and fragile puppet strings, but her body doesn't respond to her mind's commands.

Shakily, she is forced to take a step forward, as Eleanor pulls her staff back slightly. Reina tries to force her leg back to stand her ground, but only ends up landing nose-first on to the grass.

"How… what… " she questions meekly, spitting out bits of dried grass, as she is lifted and dragged up from the ground by some magical force, "Where do you plan to take me?"

Eleanor begins to walk in the other direction, and Reina feels herself walking directly behind them.

"We're off to the headquarters."

"_Why_?" she asks.

Eleanor gives scoff, blowing her hair away from her face, only for the bangs to fall back in to place.

"You ask _far_ too many questions, child." she speaks, with a wave of her hand, "You are now going to be an official member of the Black Wings."

"But…" she tries hard to not hiss the words through her clenched teeth, "Was I not given the choice?"

Eleanor's sharp ear, however, picked up the disdain in her tone, and comes to an abrupt halt.

"Would you rather _die_, Lady Reina?" she growls lowly, turning around to face the teenager.

Taken aback by the sharp edge to the Black Witch's voice, Reina tries to avert her gaze, and looks to the taller man standing beside her for reassurance, though he offers an equally patronising glare.

Eleanor had a sour taste in her mouth, as she glares at the shy girl, who seems too shy, or simply too disrespectful, to look her in the eye.

If not for her impossible power that even someone as powerful as _her_ could never obtain in her lifetime, and the use Reina would have to the organization because of said power, she would have killed the girl in a heartbeat.

Or, she would have tried to do so; Eleanor didn't feel like getting hospitalized at this time of year, however.

"We haven't got all day," Baroq's sharp words cut through the thick tension in the air, and he begins to walk back to the headquarters casually, hands in his pockets.

Eleanor looks down at the petite girl one last time, her head still bowed, before pulling on her staff as though it was a leash attached to a dog, catching up to her colleague.

* * *

"_Dammit_!"

Brushing past the golems with his teleport, they seem to recoil to the beams of light that flashed before them.

"They won't _die_!"

No matter how many times he attacks them with his nifty teleport mastery, the surface of their stone bodies is never scratched; not even in the slightest.

Francis watches on from behind the shell of a lone golem, cowering in the corner away from Cecelia and Andrew.

"Crazy, _crazy_ people…" he mutters, as he narrows his eyes, finger on his chin in thought.

'_Eleanor's crazy, too, isn't she?_' Francis thinks, at the same time trying hard not to move an inch for fear of rustling a leaf, or crushing a twig,

'_That means she and the crazy girl and her will get along just fine; then the crazy girl won't get incinerated, and we won't have to replace her as quickly as the other ones…_'

"'Thefuck are you doing?" Cecelia raises an eyebrow, as he flickers past the enraged golems, taunting them to no end.

The golems try hard to stomp the swift priest, the earth shaking under each step they take.

"Trying to kill them… With this…" he pants in between teleports, "New skill… That… I got…"

"_Keh._" Cecelia scoffs, the tip of her wand glowing a fluorescent hot pink.

As he teleports to the other side of the golem, he falls flat on his face, and attempts to feebly lift himself up off the floor, but to no avail.

The golem advances upon him, looming overhead, silent as the night, as it raises its foot…

The girl slashes the wand diagonally through the air, and a glowering semi-elliptical line of hot pink mana can be seen before her.

"_Magic Claw!_" she casts, as transparent claw-like shapes emerge from the elongated beam of light.

With impossible speed, the first claw strikes, three jagged pink lines raking across the stone's hard surface, causing the monster to shout out in what seemed to be agonising pain, turning around to face Cecelia.

After the second claw strikes, its right arm falls off, its leg crumbles away soon afterwards, and, before her very eyes, the great beast lets out a low growl, before it crumbles down to what looks to be a pile of light grey stone bricks.

Andrew looks on in disbelief. First, at the magician who previously couldn't even fire a pathetic little energy bolt, and down to the pile of moss and stone that lay at his feet, then back to Cecelia.

"You _fail_," she has a smirk playing on her lips, as she crosses her arms smugly.

"Tch!" he huffs, as he gets back up on to his feet. Cecelia continues to test out her magic claw with glee on the other golems whom he had infuriated.

"I'll show _you_ who fails!" Andrew let out a wicked laugh, as he pulls a dimon wand out of his pocket.

Cecelia begins to cast on her fifth golem, before he raises his weapon, fluorescent blue emitting from the eyes of that skull tipping his black wand,

"_Magic Cla_-"

"_Shining Ray!_"

The bright blue beam shoots out to the sky, in the form of what looked to be an elven goddess, wielding a sword in front of her. As she rises higher in to the sky, she begins to shut her eyes, and, like rain, shards of light shower over all the surrounding golems, obliterating them all.

"Hey!" she shouts furiously, as he picks up the coins that the golems have dropped with a sheepish grin.

Francis winces as the loud blasts of magic, the moans of golems, and the rustling of leaves come closer to him.

"Payback," he replies, as he imitates Cecelia's initial smug expression. She simply rolls her eyes at this, and prepares as a new golem has appeared out of thin air.

"_Ma-_"

"_Shining Ray!_"

The beams of light shooting down from the sky are beautiful, pure and holy, though irritating in their power.

Teeth gritted and face red as a tomato, Cecelia pulls the first thing out of her pocket to fling at the boy—which just so happens to be a red snail shell.

Suddenly, the beginner magician had an epiphany.

"_Three Snails!_" she hurls the snail shell at the priest, who is still chuckling heartily, darts of light still shooting from the sky.

"_Shining-_ Ow!" he cries out, clutching at his stomach, where bits of red snail shell splintered and stuck in his skin.

_Step, step, step_, in the grass… Francis hears it coming clearly towards him. Wincing, he brings the doll closer towards him so that it covers his face.

Muttering an expletive under his breath, Andrew knocks over the shell of a golem that was leaning against a strange looking hut made out of large grey bricks.

"_Jesus_, that hurts!" Andrew whines, and Cecelia, for once, isn't laughing sadistically at his inherent misfortune.

When he looks up, he can see that her mouth has formed in to a small 'o' shape. Shakily, she takes a step back in bewilderment.

This was definitely that _exact_ same feeling of imminent darkness coming off the young boy, cowering behind a hollowed wooden doll.

"It was _you_!" she gasps.

Andrew glances behind him, and there sits a boy who looks about ten years of age. He pokes his head out from behind the marionette, wide golden eyes hidden partially by lime green bangs.

Francis, in an attempt to cover up his obvious failure at being stealthy, musters up the softest voice he can manage, "What are you talking about?"

"You're that creepy kid!" Cecelia shrieks, "From that… that _room_! With all the creepy dolls, and then you asked me a question—"

"—And what did I ask you?"

Cecelia does not notice Andrew fixing his gaze on her with a frown.

"You asked me," she says, frowning, "You asked me about… death."

"What did he ask?" Andrew says suddenly.

"'_Do you fear death_'—"

Andrew's eyes widen, "Not you, too…"

"What?"

She turns around too late to see the puppeteer's eyes glow that same, strange fluorescent golden colour from her dream, his fingers twitching. His doll moves accordingly, and he whispers, gazing in to her eyes.

"_Darkness…_"

"H-Huh?"

Andrew swiftly gets back on to his knees, and tackles the girl to the ground to avoid his sudden attack.

"Cecelia, _move_!"

"_Gah_!" she shouts, as she feels the edges of her vision being blurred. Alas, Andrew had struck too late; the little puppeteer's spell was already taking effect, and _fast_.

"Help me! _Help_! I'm going blind!" she hollers melodramatically, clutching at her eyes. Andrew grunts, before he takes out an orange and blue bottle from his pocket, unscrewing the cap as quickly as he can.

"Here, take thi-"

_Zap_.

The translucent blue liquid of the all-cure potion is spilled all over the grass, as he is shot metres away from where Cecelia tries to get up, only to stumble about and nearly fall over again.

She opens her mouth to say something, yet she crumbles to her knees, eyes shut as though she fell asleep on the spot, and she falls forward on to her face.

Andrew, in hysterics, runs over to kneel at her motionless form.

"Cecelia!" he calls out uselessly, "_Cecelia_! Wake up!"

When he picks her hand up, only for it to fall limp again on to the grass, he turns around to face the little boy behind him, and he feels a growl of rage build up in his throat.

"_Bastard!_" he roars, as he draws his fist back, not even caring to use his wand in combat, "Nothing's going to take her away from me again!"

Francis raises an eyebrow.

'_Again?_' he thinks.

Without a word, Francis lifts his hand up again, casting another bolt of that golden magic, knocking back the priest even further than before.

With a grunt, he is knocked in to a tree, which splinters from the impact. Eyes widened, he coughs up blood as he falls to the floor, defeated.

'_Cecelia…_' he thinks helplessly, as the last thing he sees as he blacks out is Francis lifting Cecelia up on to that flimsy puppet of his.

"So _noisy_, they all are…" Francis mutters to no-one in particular. An ominous wind blows from the distance, as he walks out the swirling blue portal, latest recruit in tow.

* * *

As the trio walk through to the lobby of the Verne mine, Reina can't help but feel the need to collapse out of exhaustion. However, she keeps herself standing, though barely.

'_Cannot… Show…_' she winces at the thought as she is dragged forward by the older woman in front of her, '_Weakness…_'

"Le Tierre," she calls, as she throws the whimpering girl on to the floor in front of her.

The auburn haired woman behind the counter looks down at the girl with empathy in those chocolate brown eyes, before she looks back up to Eleanor,

"Yes, Miss Eleanor?"

"_Here_, we have our latest recruit," she says wearily, lazily walking towards the other side of the lobby, "Please show her the way to the dorms."

The young woman nods, before she gets up from the spinning chair, pulling down her skirt modestly, before she helps Reina pick herself up from the floor.

"Are you okay? Did Eleanor hurt you?"

"I am fine, thank you." the teenager responds, trying to sound as peppy and alive as possible.

Le Tierre nods, as she clasps on to her arm as she leads her in to an elevator, through a maze of corridors, before they finally arrive at a flimsy-looking wooden door.

"You're in room B3016." the door creaks open loudly in protest, as Le Tierre turns the knob, "If you need anything, just ask me, I'm always in the lobby."

She simply gazes wordlessly in to the dull, near-empty room, the constant _click-clack_ of her high-heels slowly becoming more distant.

When Reina has to strain her ear to even hear the faintest sound, she tentatively shuts the door behind her, and presses her hand against the wall to find the light switch.

When the lights flicker and flash, Reina hadn't expected any more—or any less—of the organization's dormitories.

The room had a quaint yet fairly empty feel to it, but Reina didn't care, as she felt herself automatically slip off her flats, sauntering over to the bed.

She buried her head in to the pillow, and wept her tiny little heart out, until she was too tired to even press the pillow to her face. A

'_Hana…_'

What could she do now?

Reina could run. Run, run, until she find the truth. But if she were to run; where would she go? She had been shunned by the townspeople in Edelstein, and she can't even remember _why_.

Her memories, her past… Where had they gone? She could not remember past _that_ moment in her life.

Had she been abandoned by her family? Has she a family at all?

Even if she made an exciting story for herself, Reina still had no history; as far as these people were concerned, she didn't even _exist_.

For all she knew, she had a dull, normal life full of mediocrity and boredom. Though, even knowing _that_ was better than only knowing blankness; dark, black _blackness_ that enveloped her every time she tried to delve into the depths of her conscious mind.

Reina could weep.

Weep, _weep_, until her body could produce no more tears.

She could cry for her loss of everything she ever cared for. The only good memories she could recall were centred on _her_.

Yes, of course, she had Hana, but even _she_ left.

Reina knew she must have had a mother and a father like all the other children who attended the academy, but, as far as she was concerned, Hana was the only family she ever had.

And she liked it like that; but what was happiness if it only lasts a fleeting moment?

"I'm _so sorry, _Hana…"

Reina had decided the only thing she would do was wait.

She would wait, wait until she could wait no longer.


	6. Noirceur

**Chapter 6**

(**_A/N_**) _Very short chapter, I apologize. When I rewrote this chapter, there was so little happening that I could condense it from about 3k words to much, much less and the major events in the chapter (I say that very loosely) still remain intact. In spite of its (lack of) length, enjoy!_

* * *

Cecelia's eyes flutter open, and she finds herself sitting in a room with darkness, blackness as far as the eye can reach. She shoots straight up, eyes widened.

"Oh no…" she mutters, clutching at her head.

Cecelia's eyes flicker wildly around the room, expecting to see a thousand beady eyes staring at everything and nothing from all directions, but only meets the gaze of those strange, skeletal puppets strewn about the room, and she isn't sure what she finds more disturbing.

Her ears prick up at the sound of footsteps approaching, pulling herself up onto her feet just in time to see the puppeteer approach her.

"Well, well…" he says.

"Who are you?" she asks, "And what do you want from me?"

This time, the boy does not pull back his hood, but simply smiles in response, inclining his head.

"You don't know who I am?" his voice lilts derisively.

Cecelia counters his smile with a frown, "No, not really."

"I suppose we shall start with pleasantries, then," he says, "My name is Francis, and I am a genius puppeteer."

"Francis," she narrows her eyes, "So-called genius puppeteer, what the hell is going on?"

"You don't really know anything at all, do you?"

His laughter is cut off by a gasp as Cecelia lunges forward to grab him by the collar, her knuckles white.

"Look, kid, I have no time for your bullshit," she hisses, "Answer me this first, then; where the hell are we?"

Francis blinks.

"In my room," he says, "In the Verne mine."

Her grip on his collar loosens, though there is still a frown on her face, "And what's so special about this Verne mine?"

Francis pulls away, a smile on his face.

"Why, the one and only Black Wings headquarters, of course!"

His smile falters as Cecelia stares at him blankly—no shock, no tears, _nothing _at all. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, '_This girl is stupider than I thought she was…_'

"The Black Wings is an organization," he begins, enunciating each word.

'_That's got to be one of the worst names for any organisation ever,_' Cecelia thinks, but nods as he speaks at a mockingly slow pace.

"It is one of the most prestigious—if not _the_ most prestigious—organizations with an ultimate goal; to revive the Black Mage and let him reign over the Maple World as he once did."

"Christ, it feels like I've been thrown into a really bad fanfiction," she mutters, "Black Mage? Black Wings? What the hell?"

Francis fixes her a look, "What's a fanfiction?"

"Never mind, go on."

"The Order of Cygnus, The Heroes, The Resistance and a good majority of the Adventurers oppose our main objective," he continues, "So our current objective is to destroy all those that stand in our path."

"So what's all this got to do with me being trapped here in… your organisation?"

"_Our_ organisation."

Cecelia's eyes widen for a few long seconds as the information sinks in. One moment, she was just a normal fifteen year-old girl sitting at her desk complaining about her copious amounts of homework while sipping a diet coke, and, now, all of a sudden—

'_Oh my God, I don't even know what's going on anymore…_'

"I want _no_ part in this… this _crap_!" she blurts, taking a defensive step back, "This is bullshit! Can't I just quit, or something? How the hell am I going to get out of here?!"

"There are no means by which you can leave this organisation short of death," his gaze darkens, "And you will soon learn that most people who are in the Black Wings are not here because they want to be."

A pause sits between them. Cecelia frowns at the gloomy tone of the puppeteer's words, and the words that perhaps remain unsaid hanging in the stagnant air, but thinks nothing more of it.

The silence is broken by a hollow peal of laughter.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot about pleasantries," Francis unsuccessfully attempts to mask his initially despondent tone, "You know who I am, of course. What's your name?"

"I… I'm Cecelia."

"Nice to meet you, Cecelia," Francis offers an empty smile, "Now that we have finished the debriefing, I must introduce you to Eleanor and Baroq."

"Who?"

"None other than The Black Witch and The Master of Disguise, of course."

"… _What?_"

Francis sighs, "Never mind, I forgot you've been living under a rock for all your life. Follow me."

Cecelia takes one last glance around the room and its vacuous inhabitants, and then looks over to the green-haired boy walking towards the doorway. With a shiver, she trails behind the puppeteer quickly, feeling their hollowed eyes fixated on her even as she passed through the doorway into the lobby.

From there, she is led through a convoluted set of stone corridors that seem to repeat themselves over and over again.

Cecelia sighs, looking to her feet, with only one thing on her mind.

'_This is possibly the worst game ever made._'

* * *

Eleanor's purple lips curve into a smile as a certain green-haired boy steps through the creaking door.

"My, Francis," she says, swirling her wine glass, "You've come back rather quickly."

Francis shrugs, clicking the door behind him after Cecelia stumbles in, "I didn't want to spend the night over in Victoria, obviously."

"Understandable," Baroq hums, "Would you mind introducing us to this latest recruit?"

"Her name is Cecelia," Francis gestures to her, "I found her with someone else I had tried to recruit earlier, who I found did not fit our criteria."

"And what made you think that _I_ did?!" Cecelia shrieks.

Eleanor raises her hand to the girl, "You have a valid point, but I'm sure Master Francis will elaborate for us."

All three of them look to Francis expectantly, who only finds a nervous smile stretching across his lips after a few moments of silence.

"Well," he scratches the back of his head, "I just didn't want to spend the night in Victoria…"

Without bothering to reprimand Francis, Baroq asks, "What level are you?"

It is Cecelia's turn to offer a nervous laugh.

"I… I haven't checked recently," she says, "But I know that I haven't done my second job advancement."

"Interesting," Eleanor says, "If it is not rude of me to inquire, would you mind giving us your age?"

Cecelia hopes the three of them don't notice the layer of cold swear growing on her forehead, "I'm fifteen years old."

"Not nearly as young as many of the other recruits," Eleanor mutters, then turns to the boy, "Francis, for what reason do you think we should accept her?"

"She knows nearly _nothing_," he says, "She didn't even know about what the Black Wings were. I'm sure it is almost the same thing as recruiting a young child."

Cecelia's mouth opens to retort, but Eleanor raises her hand to silence her again. The teenager closes her mouth—she isn't sure why, but the way this woman carries herself, the way she glances at her, and even the way she _speaks_ frightens her to no end.

"I'm sure we can make an arrangement, then," Eleanor says, "We recently recruited another… more _temporary_ member. They can be together on missions and such until we find another use for them."

'_Another … _use_?_' Cecelia frowns.

"Until then, Cecelia," Eleanor says, rising from her seat, "Please, feel free to sit down. I will retrieve her shortly."

Francis practically pushes her onto a rock-hard crimson recliner too quickly for her to object, or to ask questions. As Eleanor leaves the room, the shrewd gazes of the other two members instills more fear in her than the thousand empty—_lifeless_—gazes in that dark room.

Cecelia gulps, bringing her gaze down to her lap, her hands balled into fists.

'_This really _is_ the worst game ever made…_'


	7. To The Black Mage

**Chapter 7**

As she lay there in the bottom bunk, she wipes away the last of her tears with her sleeves, the silk lilac gown now dotted with smears of dark purple.

She glances towards the source of the sound of a ticking of a clock, though it is too dark to see the time.

'_It must be midnight by now,_' she thinks, fingers clamping around tear-soaked sheets as she gazes out the window.

All this time, for the past four years, she has been searching for someone, some_thing_ that could tell her where she came from, and where she would probably end up.

The past, the future—the _present_, even—is inevitable.

Who knows where she's come from? Whatever it is, Reina will be happy just _knowing_ her origins, no matter what they happen to be.

Everyone has a past, and, she is sure, she had one, too. Then why doesn't she know anything about it?

Reina tries to bite back another sob, as she finally comes to a realisation. The _future_ is inevitable.

Who knows where she's going to end up? Whatever path anyone takes in life, everyone is going to end up in the same place, end up in nothingness, the unforgiving darkness of death.

Everyone, without exception, dies, but some simply die earlier than others.

Like most people, Reina is one of the people who wanted to live a long, happy life. By happy, she means a life where she finally finds and discovers her true origins, and regains her memories of what she was, to know how she has become who she is.

Then, at that time, she can die happy.

But now… Now, she would rather just be one of the people who die much earlier than the usual.

If she's stuck here, and can never get out of this cursed organization, then how can she find her past?

Reina shuts her eyes, and lets the tears fall again. She can always just quit the organization, or at least attempt to. Not one person has achieved such a magnificent feat, without either dying, or living a torturous life of running and hiding from a source that is unseen, and that which remains unspoken.

A rap on the door snaps her out of her thoughts.

"Lady Reina," calls a muffled voice through the door.

She pulls the covers over her head, groaning.

_Knock, knock._

"_Lady Reina!_"

Wiping the tears away, Reina manages to make it to the door in a daze, eyes only half-lidded as the bright light beaming from the corridor nearly blinds her as the door is swung open.

"Sorry to wake you up so late, Reina," Eleanor clears her throat, "But we have recently gotten a new recruit, and we've decided that you two will be partners from here on in."

"Mhm…" Reina mumbles half-heartedly, eyes still adjusting to the light.

"Meet me in the recreational room as soon as possible," she gives a small smile, "And don't forget to brush your hair and wash your face; you want to look presentable."

Blinking, Reina doesn't seem to register this until Eleanor is long gone.

Groaning, she hobbles in a zombie-like trance down to the end of the hallway towards the bathroom.

* * *

Cecelia's head snaps up when the door swings open again.

"Your new partner Lady Reina will be coming shortly," she says, "For now, we shall wait."

She lowers her gaze to her lap again with a nod.

"So," Eleanor paces slowly around her, hands behind her back, "Child."

Eleanor tilts her head up

"Look at me, child."

"Eleanor."

The black witch feels her pace slow down considerably, blinking at the way this girl addresses her.

Not _Lady Eleanor_. Not _The Black Witch_. Not even _Miss_ _Eleanor, as the children of Edelstein like to call her_. Just… _Eleanor_.

'_The nerve of this girl!_' she thinks indignantly.

"Well, well… Cecelia. Francis is a genius puppeteer – even if he does say so himself," Eleanor leans in towards her, close enough that Cecelia can smell her sweet and spicy wine breath, and see the scrutiny in her eyes, "Baroq is widely known as the master of disguise. I'm no other than the Black Witch, and Reina is… Well, _Reina_."

Cecelia feels her heart skip a beat as Eleanor suddenly turns around to face her again, with those sharp eyes of hers, and a smirk playing on her lips.

"But what are _you_?"

Cecelia blinks, frozen in mesmerisation as she parts her lips to say something, but what comes out is a little croak.

"What talents do _you_ have?" she conjures her staff from thin air, still not breaking away from her gaze.

The electric tension in the air is palpable. If Baroq and Francis could press their backs against their seats any farther, they may well have become a part of it.

Cecelia inwardly cringes, '_I'm near the top of my maths class, I can speak Chinese somewhat, I had a speaking role in the annual school play in primary school…_'

None of it is useful—not here, not now. Not in this world, anyway. She swallows. Her extensive acting experience playing a rock in year five in the school production will hopefully come into play.

Cecelia tries to muster the words in the bravest voice she can manage, "I have the talent of having no talent."

Francis visibly flinches at the words—is this girl _suicidal_? Perhaps it is merely an escape tactic he has yet to try.

Eleanor lets out a small laugh.

"An interesting girl, you are," she says, "I suppose I must let you stay on the grounds that you have nowhere else to go."

As though on cue, a girl with white-blonde hair rushes into the room, muttering an apology.

"Ah, Lady Reina," Eleanor smiles, gesturing to the couch next to Cecelia, "Please, take a seat. I must introduce you to your partner."

Cecelia's eyes follow Reina as she, without objection, sits next to her.

"Now that you are both here," she smiles, "There is something we must do—a ritual, perhaps, is what we shall call it."

With a click of her fingers, three wine glasses and a bottle of 18th century wine are conjured from thin air, as though by magic. She lets each of them take a glass, but then, as she takes a wine glass of her own…

"Wait," she frowns, "You are both fifteen years of age, are you not?"

The two girls nod, expressions blank.

Eleanor groans in response to this revelation, blowing away a stray silver lock from her face. A few seconds after, she clicks again, and a chilled glass bottle of grape juice is conjured in the same place the bottle of wine was produced.

"Oh, well," she laughs, pouring herself some of the wine, "That only means more for me."

The two girls raise their eyebrows as they hold out their glasses, automatically being filled to the brim by some unexplainable, magical force. As soon as their glasses are nearly filled to the brim, Eleanor clicks her fingers again with a smirk, and the two bottles disappear with a puff of grey smoke.

'_What the hell,_' Cecelia thinks to herself, swirling the liquid in her cup, '_This is like something out of a Harry Potter book…'_

"Grape juice, for you two," she says with a laugh, misinterpreting Cecelia's confused frown, "And a little bit of Bordeaux, _pour moi_."

Eleanor raises her glass, and Cecelia imitates her action. Reina reluctantly raises her own glass with a shaky hand.

"Now, girls, we shall make a toast," she says, smirking knowingly, "To the Black Wings."

The glasses clink, and they each take a sip—well, a slurp, in Cecelia's case—and Eleanor takes a sidelong glance at Cecelia.

'_That one… She may have the talent of having no talent,_' she raises a sophisticated eyebrow, '_but she certainly has potential…_'

She flickers her eyes in the other direction, to a fair-haired Reina, tentatively taking small, noiseless sips,

'_As for her,_' she smirks against the glass, '_She shall be of great use to the organization, if we can somehow get some information out of her…_'

Her lips part away from the wine glass, and she licks her lips to savour that last drop of wine.

"_To the Black Mage,_" she chuckles darkly.

* * *

By the shadow of a swirling mess of blue light, framed by gold, silver and lego blocks, sits a man. He is a scarred man, with a broken face and broken, _broken_ eyes, donned in a cloak of darkness so that nobody but a select few people can see his scars.

'**_Things have just gotten a lot more,_**' he takes a glass of ancient wine from a nearby lego block, '**_Interesting._**'

His violet eyes glower with an emotion that cannot be mistaken for anything but sadistic pleasure, his grin growing wider as he reveals a set of decayed yellowed teeth.

"**_Yes, to the Black Mage,_**" the broken, scarred man brings the glass to his lips, letting out a wicked laugh as he imitates the action of clinking his glass against someone else's, "**_I'll drink to that, little girl…_**"

Smirking against the glass, he makes a toast to nothing and to no-one.

* * *

The black-haired boy struggles to keep his eyes open, as he is met with the dead silence of the night.

"Cecelia?" is the first word that is uttered from his mouth. When he elicits no response, his eyes shoot wide open, and he suddenly sits up from the grass.

"_Cecelia?_" he repeats, though louder this time, voice laced with panic. The loudness of his voice in the dead of midnight scares a few birds away from the trees, the rustle of leaves dsiconcerting.

He shakes his head, not knowing where Cecelia was, as well as trying to shake out any bugs that had decided to nest in his shaggy hair in the meanwhile.

"Oh God, _oh God, no_…" he panics, looking around the pitch black.

This is _not_ happening.

"Cecelia! Come out from where ever you are!"

The final images of her being dragged out the portal by that stupid, stupid little boy play in his head over and _over_ like a movie, but in slow-motion.

'_No! _Dammit! _I've finally found her, and she slips out of my fingers again!_' he clutches at his head, before he crawls around pats the ground to find his trusty Dimon wand, which he assumes must have dropped somewhere.

'_Ah-hah!_' he thinks triumphantly as he finally finds it, though he has no reason to smile.

Not right now.

"No, no, _no_…!" he reprimands, as he smashes his head against the skull of the wand, "Dammit!"

_Why?_

Why did he let such a good opportunity to be reunited with her be wasted?

As a warm droplet – which is certainly not sweat – dribbles down his forehead, he finally comes to his senses.

"_No…_" he wipes it away with the back of his hand, "I can't just sit here and whine, cry, and hit myself…"

He stands up straight again, determined as ever, as he dons his speedos and his duck cap; he was glad that it was too dark for anyone—or any_thing_—to see him.

"Rei-" he shakes his head to correct himself, "_Cecelia_, whatever you call yourself in this stupid, cursed world…"

He scrambles to find the portal, groping the stone walls of the golem temple just to find the exit.

"I _will_ find you," he clenches his fists, "And I _will_ bring us back home!"


	8. Mornings

**Chapter 8**

Clouds coat the town in a sparse shade of grey at the peak of dawn, not letting any of the golden light that was the sun shine through the trees that line the town's borders.

In people's lawns, the bird's song rings sharp and shrill, as though they serve no purpose other than to awaken the populace of Henesys.

Even when the day had barely begun, the seemingly tranquil, humble village of Henesys is nearly as crowded and noisy as a bustling city like Kerning at its peak.

The boy, full of eggs and toast, is ready to go with potions, several food items and a few bottles of all-cures in his pockets, walking out of the inn situated near Henesys Park.

Before even taking a single step, he immediately gets strange looks from small children, domestic animals, and fellow adventurers alike at his choice of clothing for that day.

'_Now…_' he walks along the footpath, index finger placed pensively on his chin, '_Where do I start…?'_

"Hey! _You_!" a young girl shouts.

His eyes widening, he turns away quickly from the noise prickling in his ears. Andrew ignores the shouting at first, shaking his head in denial, "No, no, _no_…"

"_Andrew!_"

'_No, no, no…'_ he looks away coolly, '_She's still training in Ereve, I must be hallucinating…_'

Cursing to himself, he realizes that he can no longer pretend that this girl no longer exists.

Running up to him is a thirteen year old girl, a wide grin plastered on to her face.

He feels his lips curve in to what one would call a fake smile, as he sees his old – though clingy – friend approaching.

'_Oh, God, no…_' he feels his grin falter as he slowly raises his hand to wave at the girl…

* * *

"Wake up, _wake up_, everyone!"

"_Oh, God, no…_" Cecelia groans, her nose digging in to the pillow case as she presses her forehead harder against the pillow.

Eleanor practically dances around the room, constantly singing that terrible excuse of a verse over and over monotonously, drumming these words in to their mind,

"Wake up, _wake up_, girls!"

A string of curse words slip past the two girl's lips, as they feel the urge to tell this woman to _shut the hell up_…

'_Man,'_ a sleep-deprived Cecelia sighs,_ 'I don't care if I die, or whatever, I just want to _sleep in _for the first time in my life…_'

The sounds of curtains being ripped open to reveal the polluted, dusty skies of the industrial town Edelstein make both the girls wince.

"You girls need to get started with your _training_ today!" she chirps cheerily.

"_What_?" Reina questions rather coldly, still rubbing her eyes, dark circles imminent.

Eleanor frowns, freezing in the middle of her extremely inaccurate interpretation of what looked to be a pirouette.

How stupid _are_ these girls?

Didn't they understand _anything_?

"As you two are members of the Black Wings," she explains slowly, feeling the urge to roll her eyes at the girls' ignorance, "You need to go on _missions_."

"Whatever are these missions for, Lady Eleanor?" Reina interrupts, followed by a sigh that came off as rather melodramatic.

Eleanor grinds her teeth together.

"This is a prestigious organization, girls—"

"Well, yeah, _so what_?" Cecelia interjects.

It's not like she's never heard _that_ before, having gotten a scholarship to a so-called prestigious—or, as Cecelia likes to refer to it kindly, _snobby_—school…

'_This is a prestigious school, girls,_' she remembers her form room teacher instructing before every single excursion they've ever been on, '_because we at St. Mary's Catholic Girl's College don't wish to tarnish our reputation, you must wear your uniform properly; your skirts must be at least knee-length, your blazers need to be neat, and you _must_ tie your hair up…'_

Cecelia feels her lips almost curve in to a smile, as tears prick at the corner of her eyes—it seems such a long time ago that she was just a normal girl sitting in her kitchen seriously considering banging her head against her biology textbook by means of studying…

"That means you need _training_ for such missions."

Eleanor takes in deep breaths, not wanting to smudge her make-up that she'd spent such a long time doing—she didn't want to stand in front of the bathroom mirror for any longer than she'd already done, after all.

"These missions can't be _that_ hard, right?" Cecelia slurs.

Reina winces at the pure anger that seems to roll of Eleanor in waves, and, at the same time, doesn't seem to understand why Cecelia was _completely_ unaware of it…

Eleanor breaths in sharply.

"_Get dressed_ and get your _stupid_—" she bellows, before the older woman cuts off her own sentence.

Running short on patience, she takes in another shuddering breath.

'_Breathe, Eleanor,_' she tells herself silently, '_You can't let these stupid little _idiots_ control you._'

"L-Lady Eleanor…" Reina squeaks in a frail attempt to calm her down.

"Please go downstairs immediately, girls," she swirls around, glaring at them both with annoyance—and perhaps a twinge of hatred—in those violet eyes, as she stomps towards the door.

"And there will be _no_ second chances if you are _late_!" she roars one final time, stamping her foot for dramatic effect.

_Crash!_

The door is slammed with such force that the two girls felt their hearts spike, as even the _room_ trembled in fear of Eleanor, the Black Witch.

"God, what's _up_ with her…?" Cecelia groans in mock annoyance, before her head hits the pillow again.

"_I'm too tired to get up when it's still freaking dark…_" she sighs softly.

"Do you want to _die_, Cecelia?" Reina questions in genuine concern, sharpness at the edge of her tongue as she questions her, "A-Aren't you scared?"

Cecelia blinks.

'_Oh, of _course_ I want to die, while I'm still stuck in this hellhole of a world…_'

In truth, however, she trembles at the thought of Eleanor perhaps blasting them both to pieces. In fact, she could even go so far as to say that she was even more afraid that Reina was.

However, as much as she is scared, she was equally lazy.

Seriously, _why_ should she have to bother to get up so early?

Eleanor is probably bluffing when she said she'd kill them both, anyway. Who in their right mind would do that?

Wouldn't they go to jail, or, perhaps, at the _very_ least, _regret_ it?

With this rather dubious conclusion in mind, she simply grunts, "Frankly, Reina," she pulls the covers over her head, "I don't even _care_ anymore."

"But-"

"Good _night_, Reina!"

"_Cecelia_!"

Finally, loud—although muffled—snores echo through the room almost immediately after she speaks, as though trying to cut her off.

Reina blows a piece of fair hair away from her face as she looks straight up towards the top bunk with a blank expression,

'_How am I going to find it _now_…_' Reina thinks begrudgingly, before she rolls herself out of the covers with a tiny grunt, thoughts still rolling through her mind.

She bites her lip to supress a tiny squeal as her bare foot is met with cold, sharp metal. Looking down with a frown at what hurt her foot so badly, she gasps.

That Black Wings badge is so finely crafted, so detailed, and so pretty, with every little black feather drawn in precision, to anyone who hadn't known what evil it represented.

It's so _disgusting_, Reina thinks with malice, as she picks up the Black badge with a frail, delicate hand.

Its black sheen, winking back at her almost mockingly, is so wicked, so tainted, and so _evil_…

'_If I'm stuck here in the Verne mine…_' she feels the urge to throw the badge at the ground with as much force as she can, but the best she can do is stand there, trembling in both agony and fear.

'_Then how…_'

Her expression remains blank, tears forming at the corner of her eyes.

'_How…_'

Reina can't cry.

She frowns to try and repress her tears; she can't appear weak in front of these people… Not in front of Eleanor, and certainly _not_ in front of _Cecelia_, of all people!

'_How will I find my past?'_

Reina closes her eyes, and a lone tear drops down her cheek at the thought of it.

'_No, I can't cry… I need to be strong… Strong, not weak…_' she silently lectures herself for letting more tears drop.

Since when did _she_ become a person who cried because someone wouldn't listen to them? Since when did she become swayed by some crazy – albeit scarily powerful – woman's words of scorn?

How did _she_ become a person who shed tears simply because they can't get out of a situation they're in?

_Why_?

Why did she become so _weak_?

She falls to her knees, hand clasped over her mouth to muffle her chokes and sobs.

_No_.

No, _she_ wasn't crying because she felt insulted and belittled. _She_ wasn't crying because she was put in to a situation that she simply cannot get out of.

She was a different person before.

She was a _strong_ person.

A strong Reina, who didn't let anyone stomp all over her, and force her in to doing things like joining underground organizations that she would never want to associate herself with.

'_How…_'

Where was that Reina now?

_This_ Reina isn't strong; she is weak.

'_How will I find out who I am?_'

_This_ Reina is broken, like a porcelain doll smashed to tiny pieces. She is slowly trying to piece herself back together and be herself again, but there is _always_ something missing.

She falls to the ground, curled up in to a ball, as she lets the tears soak her cheeks and hands.

She cries, because she will _never_ find out; not _here_, not _now_, not _ever_.

'… _What happened to me?_'

* * *

"Oh, hey, Cas," he laughs nervously, "How's it going?"

"What do you mean 'oh, hey, Cas'?" she hits him playfully on the shoulder with a grin, "It's been _ages_ since we've last talked!"

Andrew remains stoical.

"Yeah, uh, right," he says, trying to shove his hands in to his non-existent pockets.

Casmilia raises an eyebrow, brushing jet-black bangs away from her hazel eyes in confusion. He's changed, hasn't he?

'_What happened to him,_' she tries to hide her confusion, keeping her expression blank as a sheet of paper, as she looks him up and down, glancing away quickly as he turns towards her.

Andrew tries to spark up a conversation, seeing what appears to be a bored expression casting over Casmilia's face.

"So, um," he clears his throat, "How's that training going?"

"Huh?" she appears snapped out of her thoughts. Strangely, it takes her a few seconds to clasp on to what he just said.

'_God dammit, Casmilia!_' she mentally slaps herself, '_You look like such an idiot!_'

As she widens her eyes in realization, her cheeks are tinted a light shade of pink.

"O-Oh, _right_…"

The young girl laughs, though Andrew doesn't seem to find what's so funny. Standing there, he simply waits for his old friend—could he even call her that?—to stop laughing for absolutely _no reason_.

'_What happened to _her_…?_' he raises an eyebrow.

As her laughter dies down, she looks down to the ground, twiddling her thumbs after seeing Andrew's cold expression.

"Uh, well, there's nothing much to do in Ereve anymore, s-since I've done all the missions…" she bites her lip, scratching the back of her head as she looks to the right subconsciously, "So, Neinheart, like, told me that I should go to Henesys to help Rocha, and stuff, saying that I should '_leave Hawkeye alone_'…"

An ugly scorn adorns what was once her pretty little face, as she takes in a deep breath to whine,

"Hawkeye's always pretty busy, and I don't know why… It's, like…" she huffs, "Like, he has no time for me, and stuff! I bet it's that _stupid_ Irena, or even Oz…"

As she rambles on, tripping over her words as she tries to get everything off her chest that she hasn't been able to say in the past few days, Andrew supresses the urge to roll his eyes.

Casmilia's rushed words are strung and muddled together in a mess of nonsense—though she talks a lot, she says nothing.

'_Jesus…_' he mentally sighs, as he plasters on a smile, then nods every time she finishes a sentence.

"And, then, I'm like, to that stupid bitch, _what the hell do you think you—_"

With a grin still on his face, Andrew suddenly cuts off the young girl,

"Are you menstruating?"

Casmilia chokes back on her remaining words, eyes widening.

'_Oh, wait…_' his grin falters as soon as he realizes what he'd just said.

"Wh-what?" her face goes beet red.

Andrew laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

"Sorry, it's just, y'know…" he looks away, reprimanding himself for letting his social awkwardness taking over him once again, "You just keep rambling on about nothing… And stuff…"

Casmilia frowns, tilting her head to the side with a frown, as she scrutinizes Andrew's expression.

Grinning, smiling and laughing—all as fake and plastic as the lego blocks in Ludibrium city, or the girls that work the corners in Kerning city…

'_Why doesn't he like me anymore?_' she asks herself, genuinely confused, '_He's just so _weird_ now…_'

She tries to keep an expression that looks confident and smart – an expression that would either come off as cocky or arrogant, in other words—just to have one last shot at impressing him, somewhat…

She leans in closer to the older boy, and bats her eyelashes…

"So, _Andrew-_"

'_Oh, no…_' he discreetly takes a step back.

"Casmilia!" someone shouts.

She turns around to the source of the voice, and sees in the distance, that strangely familiar red-headed man.

"Hey, Casmilia! _Casmilia!_ Didn't we say we'd meet five minutes ago here?" he waves at her with a childish beam, "We need to get more of those mushroom dolls!"

"Ugh…" Casmilia rolls her eyes, before looking back at Andrew sweetly.

"B-Bye…" he paints upon his face a fake smile, waving in an equally awkward fashion.

"Bye-bye, Andrew!" she says, before running over to the red-headed man sitting on a crate.

Before Andrew knew it, he quickly shot the middle-aged man a look that said '_thank you_', and bolts off in the other direction.

* * *

Behind the silver mountains, the sun peaks brightly, eager to start the new day whilst white, fluffy clouds crawl across the bright blue sky. The trees around them ruffle and sway, the birds perched in their nests singing gently, as though wanting to wake up the few inhabitants of Ereve.

The beast's wings are then folded up gracefully behind its back, before she says to the small child she is protecting,

"_Good morning."_

The whisper of the wind in the trees makes her eyes flutter open, the breeze caressing her fair hair.

The child empress sits up, rubbing her eye with one hand, and petting Shinsoo's nose with the other. A small, sleepy smile is painted upon her delicate features.

"Good morning," she says groggily, stretching afterwards.

Almost immediately after she utters these words, she slumps back down again in to the soft mess of feathers that was Shinsoo's coat.

"_Oh, Cygnus_," Shinsoo chuckles heartily, _"Don't you want to get to work today?"_

"I don't _want_ to work," she whines, shutting her eyes. The benedict sighs, as she wraps her feathery wings around her small figure once again.

"_If that is so, your highness, then I shall let you sleep in for a few extra minutes."_

She is met by a small snort from the child, and she smiles.

"**_Cygnus is so lovely, isn't she?_**" a faint voice whispers at the back of her mind darkly.

Shinsoo raises an eyebrow at the crackling voice, but shrugs it off, blaming it on her progressive ageing.

'_Bah, perhaps I'm just growing old…_'

Maybe it was the familiarity of it that shocked her so…

'**_Mm, yes, maybe it is,_**' that voice hisses in her ear, crisp and clear this time.

Shinsoo is jolted right awake once again, as a voice, sharp as a blade, and as intoxicating as poison, enters her ear.

'_No…_' she shakes her head in denial, '_No, this can't be right…_'

"**_Oh, no, I'm sorry if it's wrong for me to disturb you on such a fine morning,_**" the voice teases mockingly, "**_but I decided, after I've reobtained my powers and everything, that the first thing I should do is talk to _****you****_…_**"

Shaking this familiar, sickly, _broken_ voice out of her head, Shinsoo frowns.

'No, _he's dead!' s_he shouts at himself,_ 'Even if he so happens to be alive, he can't be communicating to me telepathically. Even if he has awoken, he shouldn't have his powers back…_'

"_Cygnus,_" she says, with a sharp, urgent edge to his tone as he unravels his feathers.

"**_I'm not dead, Shinsoo._**"

"_Cygnus!_" she shouts irately.

"Mm?" the empress asks flippantly, rubbing her eyes with a frown, "What is it?"

"**_I was never dead, and you knew it too well!_**"

A throbbing pain shoots through Shinsoo's mind, as a burning sensation resonates through her body, her heart pounding harder and faster with each second that passes.

"_Gh…_" a bead of cold sweat rolls down her forehead, "_Cygnus, we need to send one of our strongest knights to... The heart of the Maple World._"

"**_Ooh. So you know where I am, eh?_**" he—or, rather, it—cackles maniacally, "**_How scary._**"

'_Please stop… Go away…_' she wills the menacing figure, but the shadow only laughs harder.

"O-One of the five?" Cygnus asks, clearly shocked, as she sits up with a bewildered expression, "Is it really _that_ urgent, Shinsoo?"

"_Yes!_" she moans, "Yes_, it _is_ that urgent!_"

"**_Shinsoo,_**" the shadow explains, "**_Calm down. Sheesh. I'm only here to warn you._**"

"_W-Warn me of _what_, exactly?_"

"What is it, Shinsoo?" Cygnus strokes her nose, looking at her, with true concern in those innocent icy blue eyes.

"_Gh…_"

"Please, tell me," she urges, "You have never acted like this before…"

"**_That this has only just begun._**"

"_What are you talking about?_"

"**_With your own two eyes, you will see, Shinsoo,_**" he chuckles sadistically, as the bird writhes in agony.

"_See what?"_

Again, the shadow overtaking her only laughs harder.

The agonizing pain fades away slowly, as the shadow begins to pull out of her mind.

"**_I have no wish to waste more time with you._**"

Relief washes over Shinsoo, but, at the same time, her heart thuds in her chest, exhales sharp and confronting.

'_There will be no wait to stop it…_'

What will he witness in the coming days, months, or years?

"_But what is it that you plan to do?_"

"**_You will see…_**"

"_Wait!_" Shinsoo calls out.

However, it is already too late…

'_Please, Goddess, what have I done to deserve this…_'

"Shinsoo…?"

"_Cygnus,_" Shinsoo pants, gazing in to Cygnus's eyes, "_Take one of the knights… There. And as quickly as possible._"

The empress doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the new information that had just been revealed.

'_Oh, Goddess… She can't be serious…_' she clamps a hand over her mouth.

"I thought that _it_ was only spoken of in legends…"

Although Shinsoo speaks no words, brow still twitching as her feathers are soaked in a layer of cold sweat, the little princess can sense the foreboding in her heart, and in the words that he cannot utter.

"I-In… In Ludibrium?" she gasps, "It's _real_?"

He nods, though in disdain.

Shinsoo never spoke of what was in the heart of the Maple World; the centre of the clocktower in Ludibrium that, unbeknownst to the majority of the population of the Maple World, controlled time, space, the dimensions.

And, more importantly, the heart of the clocktower controlled what _travelled through_ time, space and said dimensions.

Hypothetically, for centuries, millennia, perhaps, that mythical gateway has been sealed off, and was never spoken of again, even by the inhabitants of Ludibrium at that time, and even now.

Goddess had created that _place_ for unknown reasons, or so Cygnus had heard.

There were many tales surrounding what was inside the seemingly hollow clock tower, like the old wives' tale that any disobedient children who stepped foot in to clock tower were sucked in to the deepest depths of hell as punishment for rebelling against their parents' wishes.

Many believed it to be folklore, a legend created to ward children away from the clock tower - perhaps, a mechanism that served the purpose of giving the clock tower, well, a _purpose_.

Yes, while many believed it to be legend, just as many people didn't know it existed at all.

While the people in Ludibrium who _have_ heard of the tale of this dreaded-place-which-must-not-be-named, none have ever spoken of it, for whoever enters never lives to tell the tale, and those who claim to have stepped foot in the tower are deemed insane…

The only reason Shinsoo would want _anyone_ to go there, or even let anybody know that it _really_ existed, would be that the spell has been undone, that someone managed to get through there…

There is a hesitant pause between the two of them, before Shinsoo sighs, "_It has, Cygnus._"

"Then, Shinsoo…" she furrows her brow, eyes reflecting worry and concern, "What can we do?"

Shinsoo feels the urge to wince at the next words he has to say, that, like most of his other words of wisdom, offered insight; on the hopelessness and desolation to come, that is…

'_What can we do to stop this?_'

"_The only thing we can do is wait."_


	9. Brokenness

**Chapter 9: Brokenness**

* * *

"… What."

There, seated on the round table, lounging on the five incredibly comfortable-looking leather seats, are the five Knights of Cygnus, plus their blue-haired strategist standing above them.

A heavy atmosphere now hangs over the room once he had spoken those words, without any compassion, without even a hint of remorse.

Each of every one of them, from very early on in their careers, knew that Neinheart was merciless and selfish, at times… But do they have to resort to _this_? Is it really necessary?

Do they have no other option, other than to sentence one of their chief knights to an unknown fate, which may or may not be even _worse_ than death?

The masked one rises, his incredulous expression hidden—gladly, on his part—under that porcelain mask of his, "_What_?"

Out of all the words he can muster, all the rage that built up from the task bestowed upon him, the despair that threatened to consume him any moment, and a strange happiness that flashed across his eyes…

Eckhart just can't express any of it through simple words.

The chief night walker pauses, nervous laughter escaping his lips, as he runs a pale hand through his cropped hair.

'_What the hell are they thinking?_' he thinks, his grin growing wider at their utter _stupidity_.

"Eckhart, _please_, calm down," the crimson-haired wizard seated next to him clasps on to his arm, more fearful tears welling up in her eyes as he laughs even harder.

He can't help but wince, as he pays no mind to her words, her attempts to calm him down and let him think in his usually rational manner.

'_I'm _s_orry, Oz,_' he opens his mouth to mutter, but, instead, he spits out,

"That place doesn't even _exist_!" he roars, smashing his fist against the table. The entire room shivered under his fury, as he crouches over the table top, the initially wry laughter now maniacal.

'… _You were planning this all along, weren't you?_'

In some unusual, unexplainable way, he just _knew_ that they were planning this from the moment that they got the news of this mythical place.

Eckhart knew, from the bottom of his heart—which now sank to the bottom of his stomach—that they were deciding his fate, from the moment that Neinheart decided to invite _everyone_ to the meeting, except for him.

Still, a bubble of rage rose from his throat at the prospect, as Neinheart simply keeps as cool and calm as possible.

How can he remain so very calm and collected at the prospect of the _apocalypse_, which was partially _his_ fault?

Yes, at the same time, Eckhart had to hold in an urge to laugh.

_He_ just told them all that, if this mission wasn't fulfilled, the world would end. Nobody can go alone on this mission, for that selected person would die.

And that person they selected, of _all_ people, was _him_.

"And why is that, _Eckhart_?"

They sent Eckhart on this mission, for the fact that he never disobeyed missions, for any reason, no matter _what_ it was.

'_Hm, this is interesting._' Neinheart cocks an eyebrow, adjusting his monocle.

"It's dangerous, _Neinheart_," Eckhart imitates the way he spat out his name, thrown at the end of the sentence like it was a mere afterthought.

He could say no more, for that was all he could explain.

It was dangerous, not just for him.

Eckhart could taste the tension—so thick that he could slice it with a spoon—in the air, and feel it crashing down on him.

He could see it in the way Oz tried to hold back her tears, and the way Mihile tried to hold back his laughter.

He could feel it in the way Irena tries to keep her composure in this entire mess, and the way Hawkeye triedsto find something funny about the whole situation—but couldn't—all before he even took a step in to the room.

It is dangerous, and that was _that_.

"It's dangerous, yes," he says it sternly, almost scoffing, "But nobody else can do it. _Eckhart_. You must obey our orders."

He hated Neinheart, for the way he spat out his name every time he said it, like it was some sort of stain.

'_Isn't that the attitude of the very thing we're fighting against?_' he wanted to ask him one day, '_Are you really as heartless as the Black Mage himself?_'

He would have asked this question, but he, and everyone else with half a brain—which does not include Mihile—knew the answer.

With this, a low rumble arises from his throat, before it erupts, "… '_You must obey our orders_'?" Eckhart mimics his uptight tone, "Who the hell is '_our_'?"

A pregnant pause rings through the room, as Eckhart took a glance at every single one of the knights to observe their reactions.

"What the hell am I to you all?" he barks, "A _dog_? I value my life just as much as the next person!"

Unsurprisingly, not a single one of them could meet his terrifying gaze.

"It's for Cygnus—" Neinheart clears his throat nervously. However, the icy-haired man is cut off by a sharp sigh coming from the night walker.

"Screw Cygnus," he grumbles.

Neinheart, trying to hide his shock and surprise at the words he had just uttered, narrows his eyes at the assassin in denial,

"What was that, _Eckhart_?" he breathes sharply, unmistakable hate laced in his tone, as he spits out his name.

Eckhart nearly winces at the sheer rage and pure hate in the older man's voice, and in his patronizing gaze.

"I'm leaving on my own."

"And how are you going to do that?" Neinheart scoffs sceptically, hands placed behind his back.

"I'm leaving to go and fulfil this mission," he elaborates, "without this _mess_ of an organization."

Neinheart simply blinks, not knowing what to be more shocked at – the piece of news that had been unveiled before him, or the terrible profanity.

_No._

No, this is not happening.

One of the most loyal, kind-hearted (contrary to popular belief), and powerful knights is _leaving_ the very organization he dedicated his _life _to?

Silence echoes through the room, the darkness—and irony—of the entire situation.

Eckhart doesn't even have to do anything to say that he was serious. His grave expression, and the way his words hang in the air many moments after he stated them—true as they are, they still won't believe it. They _can't_ believe it.

'_No,_' he muses to himself, resisting the urge to tear out every strand of his long, fine hair, '_No, this is not happening…_'

"I'm going to go on this mission all by myself, just like you told me to," Eckhart sneers, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face.

Quite contrarily, horror seeps into the expressions of the now paled knights' faces, taking a moment to point accusingly at all of them.

"And it's not for this _stupid_ mission."

He breaks out into psychotic laughter, a laughter that would once instil fear into the hearts of these young knights, but now only brought upon sadness, with a twinge of anger.

Is this really what became of the once youthful, feisty, passionate Eckhart, the head night walker of the Cygnus Knights?

No; in fact, his laughter painted a clear portrait in their minds about the bitter shell of what this now hollowed man used to be.

His heart, his personality, and his very _essence_ dried out from his over years and years of mental anguish…

And, worst of all, they were there when it all happened.

They knew it was happening, and they _didn't do a thing about it_.

"Yes, that means _none_ of you will get any credit for it," he takes a moment to glare daggers in to Mihile, narrowing his chocolate brown eyes at him, "Because I would have saved the world _all by myself_!"

"You're _joking_!" Neinheart blurts in denial, an ugly scowl crunching up his face.

"When do you think was the last time I've joked about something, huh?" he affronts, "I've turned bitter from my twenty years of working here. What _is_ there to joke about? Destruction, death, or the amount of blood I've ever spilled in my life?"

Neinheart, being the quick-witted man that he was, was rather surprised at himself that he couldn't think of a snappy comeback—or any sort of comeback, for that one.

Eckhart raises his arms into the air for a brief moment, before bringing them back to his sides, a wry laughter escaping his lips, as though to indicate that he has been defeated – though it was quite the opposite.

"I had to go on an assassinating mission _last week_," he confesses, running a hand through his cropped hair.

The youngest among them, the thunder breaker, frowns. The last mission he went on was two years ago, and, even then, it was a simple job, delivering a letter to Orbis.

Were the Cygnus Knights really so cheap that they couldn't be bothered to hire dispatchers for missions such as those?

"Do you know how demoralizing that is, to know that people think you're evil enough to be able to kill someone without a second thought?"

As the ex-night night walker staring daggers in to Neinheart, the older man _heard_ his cold demeanour shatter.

"Do you know how demoralizing it is," Eckhart pauses, letting the information seep in like poisonous ink, "To not be treated like any other normal human being, just living for the sole purpose of doing the missions that _nobody else is bothered to do_?"

"Eckhart," the archer looks at the ebony-haired man with sympathy in those golden eyes, a melancholy smile spreading across her delicate features.

This time, Eckhart doesn't hold back, as he bites them all with, "Don't you know how _demoralizing_ it is, when all the people around… Your friends, your boss, the very person you're trying to impress," he tries not to glance at Oz at this moment, "How would _you_ feel if they all think that you're so evil that you'd do all these things without even a second thought?"

The deafening silence that followed after that crashes upon them; the only sound that reverberated through the room being Oz's stifled sobs.

"You _don't_," he sighs, scraping his chair back for one final time, "Because you all only care about _yourselves_!"

He swirls around in his heel, his velvet fur-lined cloak trails behind him, and he lets out a melancholy sigh,

"I just can't live like a life like that," he finishes anti-climatically, shoving his hands in his pockets.

As he places his hand on the doorknob, he turns back to the remaining four – seemingly petrified – knights in the room,

"I quit."

As the door slams shut behind him, Eckhart leaves behind nothing but a memory of his infamous cynicism, and a painful regret that hung dense in the air.

'_You're all on your own, now,_' is what the stillness, like a looming shadow, whispered to them.

The sharp silence rings in their ears, the cold, hard prospect of reality finally slapping them hard in the face, almost as hard as Eckhart slammed the door has he made his final departure.

He wasn't coming back, and to think that he _was_ is just wishful and ridiculous thinking.

This wasn't just him being dramatic, as he always was; he was actually leaving, and, even if he _wanted_ to come back, he couldn't, by any means.

Their sarcastic, obscure, and cynical – though loveable, in his own odd (yet fitting) way – chief night walker of Ereve was now gone.

'_I'm sorry.'_

He shuts his eyes, as his footsteps echo through the hollow walls, contemplating the twisted fate he set out for himself, as well as the path of loneliness, broken promises and insurmountable pain that lies ahead...

* * *

_Clack, clack, clack…_

"E-Eleanor…" Reina sighs, trying to keep up with the brisk woman's pace, "Where are we going?"

Cecelia, unfit as she is, was huffing and puffing to keep up with her brisk pace.

'_God damn,_' she stares at her shiny magenta heels, '_How the hell does she walk so quickly in those…?_'

"Well, girls," Eleanor paces quickly—well, as quickly as one can walk in a pair of stilettos—through the dank, underground corridor, nervously looking at the silver, diamond-studded (and, inevitably, stolen) watch on her delicate wrist.

"As I said," she drones, "When I dragged you both out of bed so _late_ in the morning…"

Cecelia can only blink at the ridiculous proclamation coming from the silver-haired woman, trying to hold back an incredulous scoff for fear of her life, and for fear of depleting more of what little energy she had left.

"But, Lady Eleanor," Reina frowns, tilting her head to the side, "It's still dark!"

Eleanor takes a moment to pick at her nails, before she lets out a light sigh, just as tired as the two girls dragging behind her.

"As I was saying," Eleanor completely ignores Reina's argument, "We are to commence your training today."

Reina feels her heart rate spike, as a lump formed in her throat.

"What?" the two girls blurt out, their eyes widening.

Eleanor couldn't help but chuckle at the fact that their reactions were too familiar to her—as they had been repeated for decades, with every new recruit.

And yet, they both have completely different responses to this proclamation.

Eleanor glances to the both of them, just to observe their reactions.

Cecelia's look was of indifference: either she doesn't care about undertaking what was known as _the_ most severe strenuous training program in the world, that was the very reason why their numbers were so limited in the first place, or she simply wasn't paying attention.

Reina, however, looks absolutely _mortified_. This was _exactly_ why she feared joining the Black Wings. That, and the fact that she was practically a sack of bones covered with a thin layer of skin. Her too-thin form trembled even at the thought of it.

"Yes, you girls may or may not have heard of the rumours," she proceeds to step through the corridor, with her hands placed loosely behind her back, "but, indeed, they are true."

The older girl shifts uncomfortably, whilst Reina gulped, her expression still blank, as her fist clenched.

Of course, Cecelia, having _never_ heard of this Black Wings thing prior to coming here, has absolutely _no idea_ what she was talking about. If anything, there is only one thing that she understood perfectly; the way she worded it was absolutely terrifying.

"We, here, at the Black Wings, do _not_ like to fool around."

_Clack, clack_.

The steps of her heels got sharper, and more perturbing, as the trio saunter down the hallway.

"We try to train our trainees as efficiently as possible to prepare them for the battle with what is seemingly every single other prestigious organization on the fact of this planet," With this, she stops and pauses, for dramatic effect, resisting the urge to break her façade.

_Clack, clack, clack…_

Suddenly, the incessant clicking of her stilettos against the musky stone came to an abrupt finish, as they finally arrive at the elevator at the end of the maze of hallways and staircases.

"Are you ready, girls?" she smirks, as the rusted elevator doors make way.

'_Am I read to die?_' is the question that the girls translated this short phrase to, swallowing the bile that rose from their throats.

Eleanor then breaks out into sadistic, plastic laughter, grabbing Cecelia and Reina a little too roughly for their liking…

She didn't even care enough to wait for an answer, as she dragged the two girls through the elevator doors, shutting promptly behind them…

* * *

A single droplet of water trickles out of a flask he holds above his parted lips, parched and dry as the desert.

Andrew scratches the back of his head, shutting one of his eyes, strands of hair falling to his face as he does so, "Whew…"

He takes in his surroundings, narrowing his eyes at the dulled, grey sky, as he stands, behind the looming Spore Hill, leaning against the iron gates of Henesys.

How long has he been stalling here?

Maybe he's waited for two minutes, or for two hours, perhaps? It doesn't really matter, whether he waited for days, or months, or _years_…

He doesn't seem to be able to tell; time ticks by so slowly, as he waited, and waited, and _waited_…

And for what? Even he didn't know.

He doesn't have anything planned for that day, after all. Well, nothing except for trying to save his sister from the clutches of that evilly creepy ten-year-old, of course—but that can wait, right?

'_Is she gone yet…?_' he ponders to himself. He winces at the thought of the obsessive young girl running up to her, arms outstretched.

'_Andrew!_' he nearly gags as her voice repeats and echoes through his mind, grimacing at the thought of her pouncing onto him.

He knew, that once she tried to hug him, she was like a leech—she held on so tight (what, with her almost super-human strength) that she sucked the life out of him—and she would never, _ever_ let go, no matter how much he kicked, and screamed, and yelled for her to '_go away!_'.

As his thoughts dragged on, he attempts to peer over the towering hill to see if she so happened to be training there for those mushroom dolls that the strange red-headed man seemed to collect, but to no avail.

Shiftily, he paces around the East entry to Henesys, silently cursing himself for not bothering to plan things out _before_ he set out on this so-called 'adventure'…

"Now, I'm off to find her," he muses to himself, hands placed behind his back, "_Then_ what…?"

Thoughts swirled in his mind, as he tried to block off thoughts of what could happen in future – after all, with his current mindset, he would probably think of the _worst_ outcomes imaginable.

For one, she could have been killed by the Black Wings for not obeying their orders, whatever they may be.

Another thought could be that her soul may be sucked out by that creepy little guy's puppet, and it could be thrown asunder into the depths of time and space – far from where he could ever retrieve it.

Or, even worse, she's had all her memories sucked out because she refused to give any information she seemed to have been kidnapped for, and she's forgotten everything about herself, and, even worse, about _him_.

_Then_, how would he be able to save her without it looking like a kidnapping?

"Jesus, what's gotten into me today…" he wistfully looks up at the swirl of monochromatic grey, eyes half-lidded.

'_I'm usually pretty positive, even if I do say so myself…_' he lets the rounded flask roll from his fingers, and down to the limp, dry grass.

Heaving in a heavy sigh, he knew, from the very moment he began to walk upon the face of the Earth, that he wasn't one to plan things in advance – besides, he worked harder under pressure.

… Of course, that was _always_ his excuse as to why he never started projects until midnight the night that said project was due.

'_Screw it,_' he bites his lip, pushing open the rusted agate gates, lips pursed, '_I hate this weather, it puts me in a bad mood…'_

"Argh…"

It's at moments of scatterbrained disorganization such as these, that he wished that he still had his overly controlling – though organized, and mostly quite helpful – sister by his side to give him directions…

"Ah, yes…" he sighs, trying to shake the thoughts out of his mind, "I should go to the camping supply store…"

Of course, from his previous though limited experiences with extensive travelling, he knows that he probably wouldn't be able to get to town in time to find an inn to stay at; he is lucky that the innkeeper at Henesys park even lets him into the inn at all, at such an hour.

That being said, camping supplies were a great substitute for money, should he be so unfortunate to bump in to a group of muggers during his trip – he'd know that from experience.

And, with that, he bolted through the bustling city, hoping not to get caught by a certain ebony-haired thunder breaker, while he travelled to Henesys park, and then the market.

'_Please. Don't. Come. Near. Me. Please don't come near me. Pleasedon't come near me. Pleasedon'tcomenearme…_' he silently prays to Goddess, or Cygnus, or whatever other magical entity lives in the sky that would help him.

"… Andrew?"

The boy comes to a screeching halt, the hairs on his neck standing up—and it isn't from the cold wind that washed over him every now and then…

'_Oh no,_'

"It's been a while."

He slowly turns around, a nervous grin twitching at the edge of his lip, at the sound of the voice that was unmistakably the voice of an older teenager.

'_Oh, hell no…_'

If there is _anything_ worse than getting tackled and hugged by Casmilia, it is _this_.

He silently cursed, finally deciding that if there was some sort of entity that should have helped him and guided him safely through the town absolutely _hated_ his guts…

* * *

"… M-Miss Eleanor…" Reina mumbles, twiddling her fingers as the large, rusty metal doors slam behind her, swallowing back her fear.

"Yes, Reina?" she questions, slightly annoyed at yet another question from the petite teenager.

"Why am I taking a different training program from Cecelia?" she frowns, an edge of nervousness in her voice.

Walking elegantly across the stone floor, her high heels make loud clacking and stepping noises, echoing sharp in her ears.

"Ah, yes, m'dear…" she chuckles lightly "That is because you and Cecelia must go through different training methods, for your different abilities."

'_Or, in Cecelia's case, lack thereof,_' she thinks begrudgingly, back still turned to Reina.

"Whatever do you mean, Lady Eleanor?" she blinks, "I'm not any stronger than Cecelia."

The older woman heaved in a hefty sigh, in disbelief at this girl's lack of knowledge of _her own powers_.

'_What's wrong with this child?_' her eyes widen in bewilderment, '_She's _far_ stupider than the others! Reina isn't even aware of her_self_…_'

"I have brought you here, to this organization," she begins, grinning wildly, "Under the pretence that you have a special ability…"

"Oh?" Reina tilts her head to the side, the ugly scowl on her face transformed into a look of confusion and curiosity, "What is this special ability that you speak of?"

Finally, Eleanor freezes in mid-step, and slowly turns toward Reina, just for dramatic effect…

"You will see, Reina," Eleanor raises her staff, a smile painted upon her lips as her golden staff glows a menacing lilac, "You will see!"

* * *

"Well, w-well…" he stutters, catching her piercing hazel gaze, half-hidden by silver tresses that covered half her face, "Isn't it Caspeona, eh…?"

The aspiring chief night walker, donned in her purple china outfit, accented by a silver identity strapped to her forehead, smirks, revealing a pearly white set of sharp teeth, that made Andrew occasionally wonder if she is a vampire.

'_Nah, she's not a vampire; she's just really weird, haha!_' quotes Casmilia, when Andrew, scared out of his skin, questioned her, before she proceeded to ramble about something completely illogical and out-of-place, '_I always wondered if she was my half-sister, and we aren't fully related by blood… I mean, like, Eckhart could so totally have been her father…_ _I mean, we haven't, like, ever seen his face! Goddess knows what she looks like…_'

Caspeona's vibrant golden eye—the one that wasn't hidden behind her white-grey bangs, anyway—flashed against her blue-tinted pale skin; skin so pale that she made _snow_ look filthy.

"Oh, you still remember my name," she smirks, lifting up her claw almost threateningly, with a sarcastic chuckle, "How interesting. I'd think you'd forgotten after the past few months. _Hah_!"

Andrew, confident and cool as he is, shivered under the demonic night walker's presence; he found it hard to believe that they were even remotely related.

Save for their identical hazel eyes, of course, and their tendencies to ramble on about nothing whatsoever—though, Andrew had come to the conclusion that this trait inherent in most girls, so that didn't really say anything about them being related…

"H-How's your sister?" with a grin still plastered onto his face, stepping back, nearly stumbling as he did so.

With this, the assassin takes two steps forward, until her coarse white bangs were brushing up against his face.

"You're _nervous_!" she announces with a sardonic grin.

'_No shit,_' he feels the urge to say.

Casmilia is okay—annoying, just like every other obnoxious thirteen year old girl on the face of the planer, but perfectly fine. Maybe, one day, she would grow up and be a _likeable, _less spoiled and sheltered person.

Caspeona, however…

She is the very thing that inhabited his worst nightmares—yes, she was the reason he held back on the impulse to hit her little sister.

"N-No, of course not…" he chuckles nervously, completely contradicting his point.

Being the optimist he is in such stressful situations, the scene of him punching Casmilia on the face for being so annoying, followed by Caspeona stabbing him with a poison-tipped steely repeatedly, then finally leaving him to die in an alleyway, flashed before his eyes.

"Keh," she cackles, obviously bemused, "That's a good thing."

Andrew silently raises an eyebrow, as she circles around him like a vulture, his heart beating hard in his ribcage as she does so…

"It only comes naturally as the head interrogator of the Cygnus Knights, after all!" she declares, almost proud of her gory, unethical job.

"Heh, yeah," Andrew laughs back, trying to sound interested in the slightest, "I-I… Guess you… Do a great job… t-torturing… people…"

Her lips curl up into a merciless, slimy grin, taking his words as some sort of twisted compliment, Andrew feels bile rise from his throat, but he swallows back the bitter liquid.

'_Oh, yuck…_' he winces at the thought of having to carry out such a job as hers. Who cares if it is 'good pay'…?

"That is, when Eckhart breaks down on some occasions, proclaiming that he 'can't do this anymore'… I always wondered why the other knights are too scared to go on these assassination missions… Perhaps, they're too weak? I don't know…"

Sure, he can deal with it when her sister rambled on about how a man ten years her senior is not interested in her—and, better yet, little Casmilia _doesn't know why_, which only makes it all the more amusing.

But, Caspeona's ramblings aren't amusing in the slightest. As a matter of fact, she has a tendency to ramble about the most morbid of things—namely, torture, merciless killing, and _death_ in general.

"Th-That's nice…"

"Hah, yeah…" she raises her eyebrow awkwardly, settling into an awkward silence.

'_Go away, please… I'm begging you…_' Andrew is petrified as she stands around, on-guard in case she decides to randomly castrate him for the fun of it—what, with her training as a night walker, and her obvious sadism, she could do so in a matter of two seconds, without hesitation…

"Well, then," she raises her hand, obviously amused at his blank gaze, his face paling, "I shouldn't waste my time talking to _you_."

A wave of relief washed over him, as she began to saunter away, her ninja boots crushing the grass and the dried leaves beneath her feet, "I must attend to my sister, after all."

Turning around, with one final – and fairly intimidating – glance, she opens her mouth,

"Farewell."

Andrew took the time to let the cold bead of sweat that formed on his forehead drop down his face, standing frozen to the spot, as though he is stuck in a lake of quicksand.

'_The camping supplies…_' he takes in shallow breaths, as his heart beats quicker, '_They can wait…_'

* * *

Eleanor's wand begins to glow an ominous pink colour, the shimmering reflected in her violet eyes, filled with a sadistic hint of menace that she couldn't quite put a finger on…

"Hey, wait," Reina instinctively takes a step back.

Her voice was cut off by her own piercing scream resounding through the sound-proof room, as she was struck by a bolt of magenta lightning.

"Come at me, Lady Reina," Eleanor taunts, getting into her generic battle stance. She then positions her staff so that she could cast a spell easily at any moment.

"_Ah_!" Reina is knocked to the floor, whimpering, "What are we doing?"

The Black Witch, mesmerizing and elegant as she appeared, was just as deadly as the maniacal expression written on her face.

A strange purple aura surrounds her, her enigmatic figure floating several metres high in the air, her magenta cloak billowing out like light strings of silk caught in the breeze.

"We're training, Lady Reina," her grin grows wider, even though it seemed implausible, "Why aren't you fighting back?"

"B-Because I _can't_ fight, Lady Eleanor," she shrieks, as she is blown back at least five metres, her ballerina flats skidding across the stone floor.

'_Dodge, for Goddess' sake!_' Eleanor prepares for another attack, still on guard, however sloppy her trainee just so happens to be.

"A-Ah!" she cries out in agony, resisting the urge to crumble to her knees, as the after-effects of the electricity bolt surge through her body.

"Oh, come on," she whines, trying to stifle a yawn as her staff glows a fluorescent blue, "I'm going _easy_ on you!"

Eleanor stifles a yawn, casually floating in the air, as she witnesses Reina crumbling to the floor in what cannot be mistaken for anything other than pure misery…

'_This is getting boring…_' she sighs, checking her nails for the fifth time that morning, as Reina tries to pick herself up and off the floor.


	10. Somewhere

**Chapter 10: Somewhere**

* * *

"S-Stop it…" she stammers, "Please! I'm begging you!"

'_What sort of training is this?_' her eyes widen, as she is, once again, thrown to the floor, feeling the cold heel of Eleanor's stilettos stab into the small of her back.

"This is to test the true extent of your abilities," the witch explains half-heartedly, for at least the fifth time that day, "I promise you, next time, I won't be as harsh, just so you can improve."

"B-But," she begins, as she feels the heat of crimson copper-tasting liquid rise from the back of her throat, "What if there _is_ no next time?"

With this, Eleanor raises an elegant eyebrow,

"Are you implying that this will _kill_ you?"

'_Are you implying that this _won't?'

Reina feels the need to bite back at her with a snarky remark, but, instead, she opts to keep her head lowered; just to give her at _least_ a small chance of surviving. Besides, five percent chance of getting out of this training hall in one piece is better than zero, right?

… Did she even _want_ to get out alive, anyway?

"N-No, of course not–"

In little more than a millisecond, Reina feels the breath being knocked out of her, the fair-haired girl's lips parted into a silent scream of agony, eyes widening in shock.

"Baroq and I spared your life for but one reason."

"A-And what was that reason?" she croaks, pain trickled into the cracked crevices of her voice, as the grey smoke still rose up into the air, reaching the high ceiling of the seemingly limitless training hall.

"I don't even _know_ anymore," Eleanor admits, murmuring.

'_She managed to kill Valerie…_'

Eleanor narrows her eyes, the fizzle and crack of magic no longer emanating from her staff,

"Y_ou_ tell _me_!" she gives a swift kick to her side.

Although she held all the answers within herself, Eleanor was hoping to get the answer she wanted; the fact that she had power, like she had mentioned earlier.

"What sort of question is it that you ask me, Lady Eleanor?" she groans, coiling up as she clutches her side.

The older woman, with a sigh, buries her face into the middle of her palm.

"Tell me why you deserve to live, you half-wit!" she elaborates.

Ignoring her rather transparent insult, she frowns, as her forehead is set rather uncomfortably onto the stone floor, Reina imagines herself trying to pathetically pick herself up and off the floor, mindlessly hobbling to the door, to freedom.

Even if she wasn't practically squished to the ground, she wouldn't have found any energy left in her to lift herself up and off the floor, anyhow.

Heck, had she the strength left to lift herself up and off the floor, then try and bolt towards the door in a weak attempt to escape, she wouldn't have, anyway.

She hasn't any _motivation_ left to do any of these things.

Reina did nothing, nowadays, other than go from blissful unawareness, promptly be slapped with the cold, hard facts of reality, skip the step of contemplating solutions to her predicaments, and then only dropping into grief and despair.

And then she'd just fall to her knees and _cry_.

What was the whole point of this, if her entire _life_ was just a vicious cycle of despair, continuous angst, agony and tears?

For her to even be in this situation (choosing between life and death) and be leaning toward the latter option said a lot about her will to live—or lack thereof.

She parts her lips to speak, "M-Miss Eleanor…"

Eleanor, with a frown, steps back from the now no-longer struggling teenager, still sprawled out onto the floor in a bloodied mess.

"What is it?"

"Did you not give me the _choice_," she hisses, trying to sound as articulate as possible, even when her mouth was overfilling with that red copper liquid, "as to whether I could _live_ or _not_?"

Her voice is tinged with a genuinely dark curiosity, and a deep sorrow, like she is going to burst into tears—_again_.

"Yes," the older woman narrows her eyes, nodding, "_Yes_, Baroq and I did give you a choice."

"I said that I wished to die, did I not?"

In defeat, Eleanor raises her gaze to the sky – or, rather, the high ceiling – with a groan.

"Why…" she growls, clutching at her silvery hairs.

The sharp sound of her screech makes Reina wince involuntarily.

"Wh-why _what?_"

"_Why do you want to die_?" Eleanor barks out these words, now unable to hold back her thoughts at the irrationality of this whole situation.

'_What is _wrong_ with you?_'

Eleanor wanted to shake her shoulders, scream those words at her, with the false hope that it would, somehow, snap her out of her little _I-want-to-die_ phase – of course, she didn't yet consider that it was a little bit more than just a _phase_.

At the age of fifteen, no person should have no will to live— if anything, Reina should be begging for her life!

This isn't her time yet; she wouldn't leave this Earth until _long_ after even _Eleanor_ was gone – as much as she hated to admit it.

"… Why _should_ I want to live?"

Tired of the endless questions she managed to shoot out at her, Eleanor sighs exasperatedly at her – hopefully, rhetorical – question.

And, with that, Reina sets her head on the floor, and lets the tears fall.

Eleanor sees it.

Eleanor sees it, and it was all hidden away _somewhere_, underneath the angst, anguish and depression…

_It is there_.

_Somewhere_, she had that near-limitless power.

Until she finds where it is, she is left to fix up the broken pieces of the now-sobbing girl sprawled out on the floor, shoulders trembling.

In silence, Eleanor closes her eyes, and, decides, for the first time in a while, to have mercy on the poor girl.

Stepping back once more, she tries to hold in the rage that threatened to consume her at any moment; the older woman _despised_ her, because she saw it, but Reina locked it away in her heart with her tears and her heartache.

That very power belonged to _her_, not this useless wench.

As she opens up her violet eyes once again, a too-familiar sparkle catches her eye, as she narrows her eyes at her.

'_Oh? What's this?_' she raises an elegant eyebrow, '_A ring?'_

Reina's slowed heartbeat speeds up ever so slightly, as she, in child-like curiosity, bends over to pluck it from her pale, delicate finger, almost naturally drawn to its silver sheen.

"Oho," she chortles, "A silver one, no less…"

* * *

Leaning against the pillar, lining the gates outside of the knight's quarters, the ebony-haired thief casually places his hands in his pockets, letting the comforting, yet icy breeze wash over him.

The leafless branches of the trees were painted silver with ice and frost, the ground cleared of snow to ensure it was safe enough for the knights – and any visiting relatives of said knights – to walk upon.

The silveriness of winter was no different to the palace that Cygnus only ever occasionally slept in – she preferred the company of Shinsoo, of course; especially in the winter months.

Castles made of silver and gold tended to be rather uncomfortable, and Cygnus found that out the hard way—"_it's like living in a freezer and a fry-pan at the same time_", she liked to say…

'_Hn,_' he huffs, looking down to his boots, '_It's too bad I won't be here to see autumn in Ereve ever again…_'

Ah, autumn, by far, his favourite season of all.

The red-orange-and-yellow leaves lining the seemingly evergreen trees of Ereve was truly a sight to behold—the entire island drowned in the beautiful warmness of the oranges, and the deep yellows, it is almost ethereal.

'_Maybe I could get Oz to send me a picture of the town in autumn this year…_' he smiles at the thought, '_Heh…_'

He then realises, that he'll probably never see those red-orange-and-yellow leaves line the sides of the sidewalks again.

He shiftily looks around him to make sure all the knights were either out of town on missions, or sleeping in their cabins (in other words, being lazy), before he mutters, "Why do all my thoughts somehow trace back to death?"

Eckhart furrows his brow in deep thought.

'_Maybe it's because I'm going to die?_'

Shaking his head, he tries to pry the thoughts of his inevitable—and possibly painful—fate out of his mind, instead, focusing on a promise that someone made, and hoped would keep.

'_Where is she?_'

Yes, the younger thunder breaker made a promise to Eckhart that he would get Oz out to meet him at the gate as soon as possible just to say their goodbyes, even if it's for one last time.

In all honesty, he couldn't even look at any of his other comrades any longer; it disgusted him, to say the least…

'_Hawkeye better keep his promise this time,_' he sneers, '_the bastard._'

* * *

"… He never told me."

With her forehead resting rather uncomfortably on top of a book of spells, which was laid upon several other text books, her hand clenches into a tight fist.

"Oz, h-_hey_," the younger man laughs nervously, "Calm down, will you?"

She needs to scream; she needs to dig her fingernails into her scalp and tear all her pretty red hair out; she needs to cry until her eyes were dryer than a desert; she needs to thrash about, and throw those ancient textbooks everywhere…

She _needs_ to be angry.

Oz did _not_ want to calm down; oh, _no_, not by any means.

"He never told me!" she hollers melodramatically, smashing her fist against the table, her lamp almost toppling over the edge of the desk, "He never told me _anything_!"

The red-haired blaze wizard instructor rose from her seat, and promptly flung her book filled with pictures and information about slimes - of all things - toward her comrade.

Hawkeye winces, barely dodging the flying obstacle;

"What didn't he tell you, Oz?"

Refusing to answer the seemingly obvious question, she falls to her knees in a wreck of tears, and uncontrollable guilt.

She would have told him '_he didn't tell me that he liked me,_' but that would, in truth, be a complete understatement. She couldn't even see what was right in front of her, and she absolutely _hated_ it.

Oz couldn't believe she had been so blind, for all of these years.

"H-He…"

With her pathetic, broken voice, she lifts her head, and glances at him with eyes forlorn, tears still dribbling down her face. The truth remains unspoken, because there is nothing more, now, that can be said, nothing that can now be done.

Hawkeye tries to supress a second wince at how blank her eyes look, and how broken her voice is, and then decided, that it is in her best interest to not know anything.

So, instead, he changes the subject.

"Eckhart wants to meet you outside the gates of Ereve," he sighs, "To say goodbye."

After a pregnant pause, she whispers, "And he wants to say goodbye to _no-one_ else?"

Shaking his head, he walks over to the young woman - though he hardly believed that, with all these emotional outbursts, she was older than him - and drapes his hand over her shoulder.

"No-one else," he elaborates, "Not me, not Irene, and certainly _not_ Mihile; just _you_."

Finally collapsing to the floor, she slaps him away.

"I-I can't," she stammers, "I just _can't_, Hawkeye."

Making sure to stay at least an arm's length away from her, for fear of a fire explosion, he tries to whisper reassuringly,

"Why?"

The answer that leaves her lips makes Hawkeye's eyes widen.

* * *

As Eckhart squints into the distance, a smile lights up his face, as he sees the shadow of a small, thinly-built figure was slowly creeping closer.

"Oz?"

As it gets closer and closer, his smile slowly falters, as he sees, gradually, the details of that small, lanky figure in the distance.

That pale blue-grey hair; that signature monocle, that clung to his face like a third eye; that thick tome he carries around, almost like it was glued to him; those priest-like robes, hanging off his too-thin form as it drags along the floor…

"Neinheart," the figure frigidly replies, and, all of a sudden, the bright smile is wiped from his face.

"My, my," Eckhart crosses his arms, still leaning against the stone column, smirking sardonically, "Why so early?"

Crinkling his nose at him, and his blatant sarcasm, he adjusts his monocle, before he holds out a calloused hand.

"I give you my genuine condolences," he sticks his nose up at him slightly, "On behalf of this organization."

As he unclips his too-heavy badge, Eckhart snorts.

"I don't need your sympathy."

He glares at him menacingly, almost forcing him to accept his pity.

'_Genuine condolences my ass,_' he scoffs, the image of him ripping off the badge and throwing it to the floor, before repeatedly stomping on the seal that practically confined him to this sugar-coated prison, then stomping off to catch the ship to Orbis rolling through his mind like a movie scene.

Or, better yet, the image of him ripping off that badge and throwing it in Neinheart's face…

The images rolling through his head like a broken film tape brought a wicked smile to his face.

"Are you going to hand it over or _not_?" he grumbles impatiently, tapping one foot on the baby grass.

With that command, Eckhart swiftly unpins the badge, and presses the ice-cold metal into his palm, and, somehow, a great weight is lifted from him as he does so.

Without another glance—let alone another word—to Neinheart, he leaves the Knight's Chamber, as he steps back to witness the shutting of the portal before him.

With a zap, an invisible, impenetrable barrier with a slight silver sheen to it formed before his eyes, as the holy light glowed from behind it, too bright for him to look at sparkles, he shuts his eyes.

"Oz," Eckhart places his hand on the ice-cold glass, whispering to the barrier as though she could hear him, "If there's even _one_ thing you'll remember…"

He presses his forehead against the glass, thankful that the Ereve town square was practically abandoned – otherwise, he would have pulled away for fear of looking psychotic.

"Please," he sighs, almost pleadingly.

'_Don't waste your life here._'

* * *

'… _No…_'

As she plucks the precious gem, sparkling like a star, from her finger, Reina's entire body tenses up, her face suddenly becoming ice-cold from all the blood that rushed from her cheeks.

'_No, no, no…_' she chokes for breath, clasping at what is now no longer there.

Thoughts rush past her like a bullet train, flashing before her eyes, as a bead of cold sweat runs down her forehead, mixing with the almost-dried blood.

The thoughts of it, its heavy platinum sheen, embedded with translucent blue gems, no longer attached to her finger like it had been all these years.

'_No…_'

At last, she opens her mouth, now dry as cotton, and she can only utter one word:

"No!"

Reina makes a feeble attempt to crawl forward, and grab the perpetrator's ankle, in an attempt to topple her over and get back the one valuable thing she had left.

… That last fragment of her past.

"Give it back!" Reina hollers, pathetically extending her arm forward, her heart feeling like it would explode from all the pressure.

'_Not now,_' she scolds herself, not finding the energy to wipe away the strange dampness forming in the corner of her eye, as the salty tear dribbles down her cheek.

"You're going to have to fight for it, Reina," Eleanor, with her beautiful rosy lips, lets a sadistic, smarmy smile creep up her face, "No reward without effort, hm?"

As she steps backward, just out of her reach, the witch lets out a brutal laugh, slipping it onto her finger, admiring it in all its metallic glory.

"I bet this will make a fine coin in the free market," she chortles wickedly, still mesmerized by its sparkle.

'_Hm,_' she smiles, '_Is this what she killed Lady Valerie for…?_'

And, it was all so sudden, Reina could hold her thoughts in no longer; she couldn't let all her sadness, all her rage, and all her emotions seep out of her through fountains of tears…

'_Totally worth it…_'

"I'll kill you!"

Instead, she opts to use words to convey her strong feelings towards what she holds so dear. Eleanor isn't frozen to the spot, her mouth gaping open, because of what she declares so brutally.

She isn't frozen to the spot, because of the rage, the sadness and the despair laced through her words. No, it isn't even the way she glares at her, so murderously, and that ring she adorns, which apparently means so much to her.

It was the sharpness of her tone, the way she bit out each and every word in a very un-Reina-like fashion; the sheer conviction in her words, and she knows, that they were her true thoughts towards this entire situation.

Reina wants to kill her.

And her voice, her glare, her rage, made it all seem like it would actually happen.

Nevertheless, she feigns sadistic pleasure, as an amused grin spreads across her delicate features.

'_Thank Goddess for those acting lessons…_' she feels thankful for what privileges given to her in her younger years, for the first time ever, however useless it seemed back then.

Reina frowned upon the fact that she was amused, rather than intimidated, as she growls out,

"I _will_ kill you!"

The petite teenager feebly attempts to get up, knees and elbows wobbling like jelly, the blood previously gushing from her forehead – from when Eleanor knocked her several metres back with a fire spell earlier – now drying.

"I _will_ kill you," she repeats, pointing an accusing finger at her, "and I will depart this organization – no, this _prison_ – once and for all!"

Finally, she finds her stance—although she looked like a completely dishevelled mess, with all her hair, streaked red with blood, hanging over her scorched silver eyes; though Reina didn't even care anymore.

Reina has to get that ring back, or die trying.

Eleanor sticks her nose in the air, crossing her arms, the clack of her heels as she steps backward—just in case, of course—echo through the hall.

"Ahaha!" she lets out a dry chortle, "And how do you plan to do _that_, m'dear?"

And, with that, Reina's icy-grey eyes widen, as not but a single thought comes to mind.

Trying to restrain her twitching hand from reaching into her pockets, she stumbles backward, as the Black Witch's face falls into a deadpan.

"If you vow – so eagerly – to kill me…" Eleanor mumbles darkly.

'_I promised to never do it again…_' Reina gulps, eye twitching as she shakes her head, '_I promised, I would do it just that once, and I promised to _never_ use it again…_'

Forebodingly, she lifts up her staff once again, as it glows a magnificent purple, arcane symbols swirling above her head like a powerful tornado.

'_No matter what the circumstances._'

"Then, I'm afraid, Lady Reina," the edge of her ruby lips twitch upward.

'_No matter what the circumstances,_' she grasps onto her chest in a frail attempt to slow her fast-beating heart, '_I promised I would never kill another person._'

"I will have to retaliate!"

'_However…_'

Shutting her eyes, as though preparing for death, her heart feels as though it's thudding in her throat, as Eleanor prepares to cast the spell.

'_Is that promise really worth my life?_'

With that pressing thought in mind, she, with lightning quick-fingers, fuelled by the adrenaline pumping through her veins, reaches desperately into her pockets…

* * *

Drumming the fingers of her good hand against the arm of the flimsy chair, she dons an extremely bored expression, as she stares at the clock looming above her, almost sneering, clicking at her mockingly as each second ticks by slower, and slower…

* * *

"_Well, well, Cecelia,"_

_As the hefty man places his hand upon her shoulder, she feels the need to push him away, involuntarily wincing._

"_Would you like to do me a favour?"_

_Raising an eyebrow, Cecelia crosses her arms defiantly,_

"_What _kind_ of favour?" she slowly asks with an edge of reluctance in her tone._

"_I need you to watch over Francis, if you don't mind," he explains, ignoring her blatant unwillingness to complete any task he sets out for her._

'Babysitting?_' she frowns._

"_I just need you to make sure that Francis doesn't get up to anything stupid, while I go to Zipangu to run some errands," he drones, "Are you OK with that?"_

_Cecelia hadn't any idea why anyone—let alone Baroq, whom she barely knew—would trust her with any form of human life; even Amber wouldn't entrust her with her baby sister for any longer than five minutes._

'Hey, relax,'_ Cecelia explains to herself, '_How hard can this be, right? A ten year old can only do so much…'

"_Fine, then," she mumbles half-heartedly._

"_Great," the wizard pulls away, a smile written upon his face, "Any questions, then?"_

"_If you don't mind," Cecelia begins, "How long will I have to supervise him for?"_

"_Well…"_

* * *

"God _damn_," Cecelia huffs, eyes dull, "What am I supposed to do for _four hours_ to occupy us both?"

The little boy, his golden eyes – usually transfixed upon the puppet in his lap – hidden by thick tresses of forest green hair, gazes up at her.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, n-nothing," she looks away, "Don't worry about it."

Shaking his head, he focuses once again on his dolls.

'_The crazy girl's talking to herself again…_'

In desperation, she looks around the small cabin; to the flimsy desk in the corner of the room, collecting dust; the empty bookshelf placed inconveniently next to the door; the parched walls…

"Don't you have toys, or books to read, or _something_ in your room?" she shrieks irritably, still looking desperately around the rather plain room.

Looking up at her with an equally bored gaze, he dryly lifts up his puppet, poking at its wooden carcass. Blinking, with an ugly scowl upon her pretty face, she lets out a sharp sigh.

"Are you _mute_?" she questions, shoulders slumping in dejection.

And, finally, the boy smiles cheekily,

"Maybe."

Finally, Cecelia then proceeds to throw her arms up in the air in a dramatic display of defeat, "Gah!"

'_What the hell am I going to do with this kid?_'

As she stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, he promptly turns away, teal sleeve draped over the lower half of his face.

"What are you doing?" she raises an eyebrow at his expression; his eyes were squeezed shut, and, by the looks of it, his lips were pinched together as though he had just tasted something incredibly sour.

"… Please don't _ever_ do that again," he chokes, tentatively opening his left eye—maybe the stench would burn his eyes from the sheer strength of it.

Tilting her head to the side in curiousity, Cecelia frowns,

"Do _what_?" she lowers her arms, and the ten year-old boy breathes out a sigh of relief.

Instead of responding, Francis decided it was best to risk his life:

"If I may so politely ask," he drawls in the most polite voice he could possibly muster, hoping to not get punched in the face, "Do you always smell like that?"

Wincing, in preparation for any punishment he may receive from uttering these words, he cowers in fear—

"Pft. Of course! I _always_ smell this good," she rolls her eyes.

"How long has it been since you last showered?" he elaborates.

"O-Oh," she furrows her brow.

Instead of hitting him, she found a much more suitable (though unintentional) punishment – lifting her armpits again. Of course, she did so, just to take a rather indignant sniff.

"A while," she says dryly, trying to keep herself from regurgitating her stomach fluids, whilst Francis did the same, "I'm probably going to go and, uh, take a shower…"

* * *

"_Francis, darling," Eleanor leans over the bathroom counter, "I need you to do a little favour for me…"_

_As she paints her lips a vivid blood red, Francis momentarily tears his gaze away from his puppets and dolls…_

"_What is it, Eleanor?"_

"_I'll need you to watch over Cecelia…"_

* * *

Cecelia can't help but notice the blank stare on his face, as she waves her fingers in front of his face.

"Hey, Francis?"

* * *

"_And…" he tilts his head to the side in a mockingly childish manner, "What do I have to do this for?"_

_Pressing her lips together, she then moves away from the looking glass, preparing to walk out of the room._

"_To make sure she doesn't escape, see."_

_With a small laugh, she shuts the door softly behind her._

* * *

"… Francis?"

"You were planning this all along…" he lowers his dark gaze, "Weren't you?"

"What are you talking about?"


	11. Crazy Girl

**Chapter 11: Crazy Girl**

"What are you going on about?"

Cecelia says this with genuine confusion laced through her voice, and Francis can't seem to determine _why_ she looks so puzzled. It's so _obvious_, isn't it?

"Your plan is so _transparent_."

"_What_ plan?" She bites back with a frown.

Stepping forward, he gazes intensely into her eyes, and then mutters, in all seriousness, "I never said you could leave!"

'_And Eleanor would be very, very mad at me if you did so…_'

Cecelia then presses her lips together, and shuts her eyes.

'_Hm,_' she thinks whimsically, tilting her head to the side with a frown, '_Should I run for it?_'

"Uh, _well,_" she retorts with a shrug.

'_Whatever._'

Sticking her tongue out, Cecelia promptly grabs hold of the door handle behind her, and runs for dear life—or dear hygiene, whatever she thought was a priority.

"You never said I couldn't!"

"Wait–!"

His childish voice rings through the corridor from the small crack in the door that never seemed to shut properly, and Cecelia swore, for just a moment, that her heart had just stopped beating yet again.

"I_ never said you could leave!_" he repeats, this time with an irritated edge to his voice.

The menace in his voice was enough to send her bolting down the corridor, legs fuelled by the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

* * *

A distinct _bang_ shook through the building, as Eleanor stares at the fair-haired girl with those wide, violet eyes, in pure amazement.

Reina pants. Has she _finally_ won?

As the smoking weapon she held so firmly in her grasp clatters to the floor with a metallic sound, she sighs forlornly, her burnt silver eyes half-lidded. Is this the wonderful taste of victory dancing on her tongue?

Though the blood should pour like a crimson fountain from a gash in her arm, Eleanor sustains not even a scratch, as she mutters these words with a merciless smirk, "Foolish little girl."

* * *

"I really _did_ like him," the ashy-haired girl mumbles, snuggling up in the feathers once more, as the lanky figure of the night walker slowly becomes more distant – Cygnus looks on at her once-loyal knight.

'_So many years ago…_'

She furrows her brow as she witnesses him, from afar, place his hand against the glass forlornly—almost pleadingly, as he whispers cracked words…

'_We made a promise, didn't we?_'

Being able to hear people's thoughts and sentiments seems as natural as breathing, to the little Empress; she would usually look indifferent as the words swept past her through the breeze.

"_Can you hear him, Cygnus?_"

With a grimace, she clutches on to her feathers tighter, her expression almost pained, "I can, Shinsoo."

The breeze of whispers that passed by her, this time, is icier than before—she doesn't know whether it is the dark tone of his voice, or the cold of winter that made her shiver.

'_You said that we'd get out of here together,_' the masked man continues.

The problem with this—incredibly strange, she had to admit—sixth sense is that she feels _everything_ that person went through.

Every shed tear, every pained laughter, the way peoples' lips cracked into a broken smirk; she doesn't just _hear_ it, she doesn't just _see_ it…

Cygnus _experiences_ it, and it hurts. It stabs at her like a knife slowly being driven into her chest. Of course, through this, she knew pain—but, in all her years, nothing quite hurt as much as _this_.

"_Such a shame, isn't it?_" Shinsoo breathes, the great beast's eyes half-lidded.

A whimper escapes her parted lips.

Nostalgia, now, is what she feels; yearning for something long past—aching, _infinite_ pain, is what washes over her.

'_We said that we'd move away from here and explore the world; experience it as explorers were meant to,_' he sighs, '_You were supposed to be a fire and poison mage, while I was supposed to be a night lord…_'

From the looks of him, leaning against the barrier, he seems to have wanted to stay, almost as if he were exiled from the organization.

And yet, despite these actions, she knows, from the very bottom of her heart, that he would be happier than ever without them all.

'… _And then you said we'd live in a house near Orbis tower made of chocolate, with a moat of vanilla cream, and a thousand rooms made of gold,_' he drawls, '_Then we'd eat all the red bean sundaes we wanted, and, somehow, we'd _never_ get tired of it.'_

Tragedy, now, that yearning for something long past is substituted with sorrow, and unending despair.

"Eckhart really is a strange man, isn't he?" Cygnus smiles sadly.

"_Indeed._"

'_You said we'd be happy._'

"He sounds like," she shuts her eyes tight, "Like he's talking to a gravestone…"

Silence—save for the thoughts being unwittingly fed to them—then covered the both of them like a muffling blanket, almost _forcing_ them to focus on his words.

'_Then, for a second, just for one moment, your eyes sparkled with such innocent anticipation, and hope…_' he smiles, this time, '_And, for a second, just for _one_ moment…_'

Someone else's tear rolls down Cygnus's porcelain cheek.

'_I believed you…'_

* * *

"… Because I wanted to be happy, too," he smiles brokenly, "I thought we'd be happy in our little, idealistic dreams from our childhood—we'd be happy together in a castle made of chocolate in Orbis, with rooms made of gold and silver…"

Eckhart finally pulls away from the barrier, still staring into the endlessly shining abyss that seemed to glare back at him with contempt, still with a wretched smile playing on his lips.

"And now, too much has changed, for me to be so happy, and carefree, like a blithe child at a carnival," he rambles on, "Too much has changed, for _me_ to be able to happy, as you are. I can only _dream_ of such a privilege."

He shuts his eyes once more, '_I can't even _dream_ of happiness, if the blood of tens of thousands of men, women and children still haunt me._'

Eckhart never wants her to be like that—to have the guilt of someone's sadness and depression haunting her.

"Don't ever stop being happy, Oz."

She'd be sad and guilty for now, but not to the point that she'd break. Oz was fragile, and sensitive, sure, and, yes, she typically dealt with these sorts of things in a very emotional, Oz-like fashion; but even _she_ would realize that life must go on.

Oz is overly passionate, Oz is easily broken, but she was, by no means, _stupid_.

He turns on his heel, looking around for fear of any stray knights or shopkeepers had witnessed his little one-sided conversation, also in fear of being thrown into an asylum by one of the said shopkeepers or knights.

"Forget about me. Just pretend I was never your friend."

_Step, step, step_…

'_First stop, Victoria…_' Eckhart, finally, climbs up the stairs to the dock on the edge of Ereve.

Eckhart, finally, climbs up the stairs to freedom.

* * *

"God… _Dammit_!" she clenches her teeth.

"Are you OK in there?"

Cecelia jolts upwards at the sound of him knocking at the door, accidentally pulling off _much_ more tape than she'd like…

'_Shit!'_

"I'm perfectly fine!" Cecelia shouts back, still confused as to why Francis ran after her.

Of course, after she had bolted to the bathroom for the sake of showering, he tackled her to the floor in an attempt to stop her from doing what he thought she was about to do—escape.

She then had to explain, with great difficulty, that it was all just a misunderstanding, and she only went to take a shower to clean herself—not climb through the windows so desperately as others have done in the past.

Cecelia takes in her surroundings, and found that the only window was one that she could hardly fit through, and was only there for the sole purpose of ventilation.

"… _What_."

Even if she _is_ skinny enough to squeeze through the gap, it is too high up for any normal human to reach up to it, let alone climb through it…

Are people _so_ desperate?

'_Really, kid?_' she wanted to shoot at him, but decided that she should be nice after repeatedly verbally abusing him in her mind, at least.

"I'll come in and help you," he explains, "Open the door."

Looking up at the clothes – or, rather, the dirtied rags – and undergarments sprawled all over the counter next to the damaged sink, she responds…

"No, you freaking _creep_…" she mutters, blushing deeply.

With this, Francis keeps his head leaning against the door, with a childlike scowl adorning his face.

"I _can_ hear you, you know!" he shouts back, obviously dismayed, "The walls are paper-thin! Why won't you let me in?"

"Well, I'm _sorry_ that I value my privacy and my dignity," she leers sarcastically at the door, as though her dark grey eyes could pierce through it.

"It's OK, crazy girl!" he retorts, "I forgive you."

Obviously, her glare didn't work at all – he's grinning from ear to ear, Cecelia can just tell…

"Piss off!" she then barks, throwing a muddy red boot at the door, "I swear, if you step into this room…"

"Goddess, fine then! I'll leave you alone!" Francis cries, before his stomps fade father and father into the distance, until they can no longer be heard anymore. Cecelia huffs.

"Stupid kid…" she mutters.

Cecelia walks over to one side of the bathroom to find a cabinet, with shampoo, conditioner, _anything_, as she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Of course, Cecelia knows that she has taken on a completely different form from real life. As far as she can tell, she was a lot shorter in this body than her real one—her in-game height was a whopping fourty pixels or so.

But what she sees in the mirror; too similar to the huge, blinking grey eyes, a practically non-existent nose and two-pixel mouth that looked quite appealing on the computer screen.

Such is not the case in real life.

Although her face and hair are covered in dirt and grime, the way her stone-grey eyes sparkled in what little light shone in the room, and the way her pink lips were small, yet full… Cecelia rubs a hand against her face, expecting to touch hard plastic or wood instead of flesh and bone.

"_God_, I look like those creepy dolls you see in horror movies that pop out from a dark corner when that suspenseful, creepy-ass violin music is playing…"

'_Anime tends to do that to people, you see._'

Cecelia doesn't have time to be shocked at the sudden voice at the back of her head that seemed shockingly similar to her own.

None of this is real, none of this is happening, this is still all some silly dream…

"I'm not anime," she says to herself wryly, "I look like a piece of moulded plastic!"

'_Hm. Well, you _still_ look like your video game character, even if your lips and nose aren't ridiculously small—if not non-existent—and your eyes don't happen to be the size of pancakes._'

"Shit," she breathes, "But, this sort of thing, being sucked into a video game… it could only happen in a story, or an anime, or something to that effect."

'_If that's the case, then you're the ultimate Mary Sue._'

"That's always nice to know."

'_If you dyed your hair some bright, unnatural colour, manage to seduce every man on the face of the Maple World, and then angst about being perfect and treat it as some sort of curse, you're all set!'_

"Sweet."

And, like the typical Mary Sue she has become, she sits in front of the mirror, and spends too long examining her too-perfect features.

* * *

"So," Eleanor steps around her collapsed form, inspecting her now limited movements, "The rumours were true, weren't they?"

Keeled over in pain, Reina is, once again, brought to her knees, as she clutches at her upper arm, reluctant to clasp on for the fact that, if she decided to let go, the blood would gush out, and she would inevitably die.

"Wh-what sort of spell did you cast upon me?" Reina shuts her eyes tight in pain, the crimson staining the velvet of her long-sleeved dress, although she pressed her palm firmly against it.

'_What rumours does she speak of?_'

"I casted no spell on you; it is my signature attack, darling," Eleanor drawls whimsically, "The most lethal kind of magic ever invented."

Wanting to hear more, Reina tunes in to listen to the magician's oh-so-amazing explanation of _why_ she was in so much pain.

"Damage reflect."

Frowning, Reina trembles—she would have nodded in understanding if the pain still wasn't washing over her body, however.

It is no wonder that the even most powerful resistance members, adventurers, even Cygnus Knights at the peak of their knighthood, didn't come back after a single battle with the infamous Black Witch—in one piece, anyway. Although she was weaker than them by a considerable margin, seeing as she is no longer at the peak of her powers, she took advantage of this: Eleanor takes their near-unlimited power, and then forced them to use it against themselves.

Though it put the Resistance, Cygnus Knights, and every single other organization that fought against the Black Mage at a lethal, _miserable_ disadvantage, she had to admit, it was absolutely _ingenious_.

"Wow," the fair-haired teenager breathes in amazement, though her voice was dulled to the point that she sounded utterly bored.

Eleanor, with a blink, steps on the metallic weapon, shining in whatever little light passed through the small windows high above them, it is obvious that it hadn't been used too often, and, even so, is kept in good condition…

Maybe it was for the fact that it had some sort of sentimental value to her?

"A _gun_, eh?"

With a grimace upon Reina's once-graceful features, the screeching of it scraping against the stone floor echoes in her ears, and Eleanor grasps it in her own hand—she is a whimsical, questionable woman, sure, but she isn't _stupid_, not by any stretch of the imagination.

"So, tell me," Eleanor leans over until her hoary hairs were brushing against Reina's cheeks, as she places her staff gently on the ground, "Since what I have thought all this time has been proven true…"

Pursing her lips, Reina struggles to open one eye, as she tries to turn away…

"Why did you leave?" Eleanor interrogates, using her now-free hand to clasp onto her face.

"I shall assume I have the right to _not_ answer that question, and, thus, will not answer," she interjects defensively, jaw tightening.

"You have no right to do anything," Eleanor narrows her violet eyes, "Because, now, your life is in the palm of my hand."

Reina gulps, "I still have the right to remain silent, _do I not_?"

_Click_, the revolver spins its barrel.

"Not if you want to survive."

"I really, _really_ do not wish to survive, Lady Eleanor," Reina gives a scowl.

'_No,_' the witch's eye twitches, 'No_, not this again… I'm _tired_ of this…_'

"Oh?" she raises an eyebrow, "Then what about your past?"

With a pained grimace, Reina tries to tear herself away from her icy cold, violet gaze.

"Do you even know how to use the weapon you hold so _precariously_ in your hand?" she growls, "Don't you want to know what happened before you ended up in this mess? Where you came from?"

"How is it, if I may be so obliged to ask," Reina hisses, narrowing her eyes, "That you know all of this?"

"Before recruitment missions, m'dear," she smirks, still holding her face with one hand, and clasping the gun with the other, "We tend to read up on the people we have to recruit, just so we have a full background, and such."

Reina's brow furrows, and she spits, "You're _sick_."

"I already know that, darling," Eleanor rolls her eyes, as she drones on, "It's funny. There were no records of you, other than a couple of medical reports made by the Resistance after a check-up several years ago."

The words hit Reina like a cold, hard slap to the face.

There are no records of her. How is she supposed to retrieve her memories? Through some miracle, or some sort of magic?

Maybe there weren't any memories to retrieve in the first place—she is probably the product of some cruel lab experiment, thrown into the streets after she was of no more use to them.

"There was nothing about your family."

Reina winces again, clutching at her now-torn sleeve.

"There is nothing about who you are, where you came from," Eleanor drawls lightly, "and the only thing we knew, is that you joined the Resistance, but then…"

She breathes in, the edges of her lips twitching,

"But then," she whispers, "_you betrayed Edelstein_."

Eleanor can see her emotions through her practically translucent eyes cracking from what she already knew about her; more than her, it seems. If she pulled the strings just a little more, soon enough, Reina will be like putty in her hands.

"I would not like it to be worded in such a way."

"But, you did."

Reina winces, the clenching her teeth as she grimaces involuntarily accompanied by a small whimper.

"That's _exactly_ what you did," she smirks, "You're a coward, that's all you are. You took the easy way out–"

"_She died!_"

Raising an elegant eyebrow, Eleanor tries to hide her now-piqued interest.

"… Oh?"

"Hana _died_, and it was all because of you!" she blurts, tears gushing out at the memory of it, "I vowed that I would no longer take part in this petty battle between Edelstein and the Black Wings in her honour!"

Reina, in reality, shouldn't be saying all this, Especially not to _her_—Eleanor, the infamous Black Witch…

"That's why I threw it all away!" she screeches, "That's why _I'm no more of a coward than you are_!"

The words, the crystallisation of Eleanor's shortcomings, hang in the air, and Reina grimaces as one moment passes, and then another.

'_What have I done?_' Reina breathes in sharp breaths, eyes now fogged with tears once again.

"… Here."

Reina looks up at her, eyes and face all red and puffy, as her lip trembles, seeing her slide the ring off her bony finger.

"You can take it back," Eleanor says, "You need it more than I do."

The meeting of the ring against the stone floor made a small, metallic clink, and, Reina, disbelieving, looks up at the Black Witch with wide eyes.

'_Really?_'

Eleanor then releases Reina from her vice-like grip, and looks to the direction in which the ring rolled, keeping a straight expression.

It feels like minutes or hours pass as she crawls pathetically towards the piece of jewellery, stopping to whimper every now and then about the bad, painful scrapes on her knees and shins.

'_I-I didn't think I could get it back so easily,_' Reina marvels the jewellery back in her grasp, as she slowly slides it on her own finger…

The sound of the gun being dropped to the ground made her heart jump – '_Is she surrendering?_' Reina is frozen to the spot, '_Is it all over?_'

Little more than a millisecond after that very moment, Eleanor gives a clean, sharp karate chop to the back of her neck.

"_Ah_!" was the last thing she gasps, before she clatters to the floor in a messy, bloodied heap.

Promptly taking up her stained collar, as she slides across the smooth stone floor seamlessly, Eleanor sighs, as she picks up her staff, the gun she held just moments before now hanging by her finger, clashing with Reina's shoulder every time she took a step.

"That's all we'll need for now, m'dear…"

* * *

"Hey, crazy girl!" Francis raps on the door, his other hand clasping onto a silver coat hanger, "Crazy girl!"

'_God dammit!_' Cecelia steps out of the shower with an exhausted sigh—fighting the battle against the shower knobs, the nozzle (which seemed to squirt everywhere for the sake of annoying her) and the water temperature…

The fact that she can get out of the shower alive was an amazing feat. She swears, as the water goes from ice-cold, to scalding, and then back to ice-cold again, that she would either die from the extensive burns yet end up with frostbite at the same time.

_Knock, knock, knock_!

Snapped out of her thoughts, her gaze turns to the wooden sliding door.

"_Crazy one_! Can you hear me?"

"Ugh! Oh my God… I _hate_ it when you call me that!" she grumbles, as Cecelia crouches down to grab two—hopefully—fresh towels from the cupboard beneath the sink, "SEE-SEE-li-ya! My name is freaking _Cecelia_!"

He sticks his tongue out with a mischievous smirk, although he knows she's not able to see it, as he brings out a hand to rap against the door once more,

"I've come with your uniform, _crazy girl_," he is cut off by rather irritated growl as a response to his mockery, "Are you done in the shower yet?"

With an aggravated sigh, she holds the towel around her otherwise exposed body, as a small click resounds from the door when she twists the little lock.

"… _Fine_. You can come in," Cecelia growls through clenched teeth, "And if you call me that _one_ _more time_, I will personally castrate you!"

The door slides open rather slowly, as Francis peers in cautiously—even though he doesn't know what exactly she meant when she threatened him, the way she said it sounded pretty dangerous…

"If you don't want me to call you crazy girl," he places the set of occult magenta robes on the counter gently, "Then I shall assign you a nickname."

"Sure, I guess," she shrugs.

Anything is better than being called a 'crazy girl', after all.

"Sissy."

Except for that, perhaps.

"What the hell was _that_?" she frowns.

"My new nickname for you," he blinks, "Cecelia, See-see-li-ya, See-See, Sissy… It correlates well, yes?"

No longer caring for decency or modesty, seeing as she is blinded by rage, Cecelia gives a swift kick to his head, as he is knocked back into the corridor he once entered from.

"Get the _hell_ out of the bathroom!" Cecelia shrieks, as she slides the door shut rather loudly, "I need to get changed!"

"O-Ow…" Francis rubs the side of his face, as the door clicks closed once again…

"Francis?"

And, there, Eleanor stood, in all her tattered glory, dragging behind her the lithe form of the flaxen-haired girl who she had brought into the training room little more than two hours earlier,

"Francis, m'dear," she drops what appeared to be a corpse, "Are you OK? You look rather surprised. Did something happen?"

"I-I'm fine, Eleanor," he blinks, shaking his head, "But I have a question…"

"Go ahead, darling," Eleanor kneels by his side, "What is it that you ask?"

And, now, the little boy turns his own blank, golden gaze to the woman's violet eyes.

"What does 'castrate' mean?"


	12. Time Machine

**Chapter 12: Time Machine**

"Wh-_What?_" she roars, the impact of her pressing the earpiece into her head so large that it may just crack her skull.

Not but a single sound, save for the seemingly delusional girl in the back corner of the small restaurant, bellowing expletives to nobody in particular, resounds through the hut; the entire tea house has been brought to a standstill.

Scraping back her seat, the night walker's eyes widen. Did she hear that correctly? _Is he serious_?

"You're _joking_!" she roars, irritably smashing her fist against the tea-cup with strength that would rival even Mihile's.

With the sound of that shattered teacup, even the usually stoic manager, cowering behind the front counter, nearly jumps out of his seat in horror.

"You're fucking _kidding_ me!"

As the scalding hot green tea blends in with the drops of red, she angrily grinds her fist against the pieces of shattered porcelain even harder, the pain unable to override her seething rage, as the night walker crinkles her nose in disdain,

"So, _let me get this straight_," she hisses through her sharp teeth, "You overwork me for _at least_ six months, then you finally let me go on vacation for three months to make up for it…"

Caspeona heaves in a heavy sigh, feebly making an attempt to keep her composure, "And, _one day_ in, after _one single day_…"

'_What the hell did Eckhart get up to this time?_'

"You're telling me that I'm going to have to take up the position of _chief night walker_?"

She blinks, as sound hisses through her wireless headset – the voice that crackled through became no more than a demonic rumble, as she drowns in her thoughts.

It's no question, of course, that Eckhart, the chief night walker of Ereve, is an extremely dramatic, unpredictable—even _indecisive_, at times—man.

"Oh?" she raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

On top of being a generally temperamental man, one that held in his thoughts and feelings, until he explodes into another fit of rage, or does something otherwise potentially dangerous and impulsive; Eckhart was extremely powerful.

"He left?"

Why he stepped down from this extremely prestigious position, after living such a privileged life (one that men and women alike could hardly even _dream_ of living) is a mystery to Caspeona.

"And _I'm_ the one you picked to be next in line?"

"_Y-Yes,_" the strategist replies shakily.

Immediately, she grabs the plate of steaming pork dumplings, and flings it towards the wall to her left, not even batting an eyelash as it collides with the wall.

_Smash_!

Why _she_—of _all_ people that they could have chosen—is filling in this prestigious position baffled her even more.

_Squelch_…

"Are you _insane_?"

With caution, the manager—secretly glad that the squishiness of the dumplings took the impact of her throw, saving him at least a few thousand mesos that he would need to fix a dent on the wall, or replace a shattered plate—steps up towards the infuriated girl.

"E-Excuse me, miss…"

"_What_?" Caspeona roars, shooting the portly man a much unneeded death glare, her rather grotesquely sharp teeth bared at him.

"If you must argue like this in my restaurant," he explains, trying to hide the quiver in his voice, as he warily eyes the poison-coated throwing knives sitting at the front of her belt, "Then, please, if you may, take it outside."

Caspeona can only blink, realising her sudden outburst is completely uncalled for. At least, from the incredulous glares of the other customers, that was what it seemed like.

Given the situation she is in, _anyone_ would have thrown a plate of dumplings at the wall, or anything, inanimate or not, within their grasp.

'_Keh, Eckhart, you,'_ with one last scoff, she reaches into her pockets,_ 'I have no idea what was running through your mind when you went into your little fit…_'

Caspeona mutters an apology as she leaves her mesos on the table, hoping it will be enough to compensate for the damage.

Her eye twitches, as she leaves the restaurant, '_But, I assure you, you'll regret it…'_

* * *

"Urgh…"

Slowly – _very_ slowly, with a groggy grunt, Cecelia's one non-swollen eyelid flutters open to reveal a dull grey orb that barely shone in the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"'The hell…" Cecelia clutches at her bandaged head with a groan, heaving herself up.

She takes in her surroundings of a rather tragic-looking infirmary.

* * *

"… _You must not teach Francis these sorts of things," Eleanor shakes her head, "He's only a ten year-old boy, after all."_

_Cecelia raises an eyebrow._

"_He _still_ doesn't know what castrate means," she mentally cringes at what she is about to say next—the forced formality feeling strange as it leaves her mouth, "L-Lady Eleanor."_

_Who even refers to people as 'Lady' nowadays, aside from the people in those really bad English dubs of anime?_ _She almost gagged as the words left her mouth._

"_But, Cecelia," Eleanor narrows her eyes, "You're giving him the wrong ideas."_

'_What the hell is this?' she thinks, eyes widening._

'Your death, maybe?_'_

_Cecelia gulps, as she steps back, making sure her glare was as intimidating as possible—it usually worked on the playground, back when she was seven, or so, to ward off the bullies…_

_But, as she would guess, Eleanor simply laughed; a shrill, high-pitched sound, that sounded much like a cursed banshee._

"_Are you trying to initiate a _battle_?" she snickers, "You're not even armed! It would hardly be fair at all."_

'_No, I'm trying to prevent myself from getting into a so-called "battle"…' Cecelia narrows her own eyes at her._

"_Don't worry, my dear," she lifts her staff, a glow emanating from it, "This won't hurt."_

_The last thing she sees with wide, nervous eyes is Eleanor lifting her spear-like staff…_

"… Much_."_

* * *

'_The second time in one-and-a-half days,_' a melodramatic sigh echoes through her mind, '_Good job, Cecelia._'

"Hey," she interjects, "it's not _my_ fault that Eleanor's into corporal punishment."

Her inner-self (whom she hadn't bothered to name, since she was—and _is_—still _her_, thus she went by _her_ name) simply shrugs, and with a sigh, she presses a finger to her under eye area.

"… Ow-ow-ow."

Cecelia winces as she pokes her left eye, still bruised black, and swollen.

'_I _must_ congratulate you, however,_' inner-Cecelia says dryly, the sound of slow clapping echoing through her brain, '_you survived._'

_Clap, clap._

"Shut up, you."

She waves away the strands of hair that fell to her eyes, as though swatting away her own unkind interjections.

'_Pft._'

Completely bored of looking around the room after the fifth time or so—not that there was anything interesting to look at in the first place, anyway—Cecelia turns to the girl laying in the bed next to her, still knocked out cold.

'_What the hell did Eleanor _do_ to her?_' she flings her legs over the side of the bed, hoping to inspect further.

"_Wh-What_…" Reina whimpers.

_Ba-thump_: Cecelia clutches at her chest, where she swore her heart just jumped ever so slightly.

'_Holy crap…_' she flinches hoping she hadn't woken her up from a deep sleep – or so it seemed.

Reina mumbles inaudibly, as she twists and turns in her sleep, the covers getting tangled in her legs and arms.

"R-Reina?"

* * *

"… _Wh-What is your purpose?"_

_Reina pulls the lever, as the grand machine, made of the finest copper and steel, takes a large, booming step back._

"_What is the meaning of all this?"_

'Why have you…_'_

_Taking another stilted step back, her eyes widen in disbelief – munching on a piece of meat, the men, clad in black uniform trimmed with gold, simply shrug._

"_Girly," one of them swallow, some pieces of meat still stuck in an untamed, rust-coloured beard, "we need t' survive, y' see…"_

* * *

"_Reina_?"

"**Aaaaah**!"

Cecelia swore she could feel her eardrums bursting—or squealing as they each died a horrible, painful death—as she let out a bloodcurdling scream, her previously sleepy eyes now widened with dread.

Reina heaves in heavy, nervous breaths, a layer of cold sweat growing on her forehead, as though she had just run a great distance.

… Her eyes were widened, bangs sticking to her forehead, almost as though she had just run for dear life.

"A-Ah…"

"Ssh, it's okay…"

Reina pants, her eyes widened as they flicker wildly around her, taking in her surroundings. It takes a few minutes for her breathing to be even, and she lies back down onto the bed again.

Clearing her throat, Cecelia finally inquires, "What's wrong?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're _crying_."

'… _Again._'

The peculiar dankness that soaked her cheek seemed to ever-present—Reina hadn't even bothered to notice it anymore.

"Nothing," she wipes away the useless, hollow tear.

"Bullshit."

Snapping her head up, she tries not to cry out in horror at her profanity; rather, she would try and slowly get used to it. Would she really be stuck with her for as long as she will live, for as long as she would be stuck in this cursed prison of an organization?

"B-But, really!" Reina attempts feebly to defend herself, lying through her teeth, "It's nothing!"

Sighing, Cecelia finds her forehead being buried into the centre of her palm,

"When people cry, Reina," the ebony-haired girl seethes in exasperation, "It's usually because they're inflicted with some sort of painful, strong emotion; nervousness, anger, _sadness_…"

She narrows her eyes.

"It's biology," Cecelia finishes rather anticlimactically, "That _is_, simply put, how it all works."

Reina finds her gaze falling to her lap, as she looks down at her hand, and that sparkle of silver…

"So, tell me," Cecelia places a hand on her shoulder gently, "What's wrong?"

Flinching at the sudden contact, she still responds,

"I've been thinking. That's all, really."

"_Thoughts_ can drive you into tears?" Cecelia inclines her head in confusion, and in disbelief. Biting her quivering lip, Reina looks up, but dares not look at her possibly incredulous expression.

"Crying and whining, Reina," Cecelia warns, "Won't get you anywhere in this life. People won't help you just because they feel sorry for you."

"I do not need anyone's sympathy."

"Then why do you cry?"

"I cry for myself," she declares, clenching her fist, as she holds it up to her chest, "I cry for what I have lost!"

"What've you lost?" Cecelia sighs, "What have you lost that makes you worry over it so much?"

"I cry, because I fear that, if I don't, I won't even have tears left to shed – I'll have nothing, except a ghost of what was once called 'hope'," frowning, she continues, "I won't even have _memories_. I don't _have _memories right now."

"Why do you hold so much sentimental value toward your past," Cecelia retorts, looking her up and down, "When you don't even know what it is?"

"W-Well…" she purses her lips, eyes shutting slowly as she stops to think—what could she say in reply to that?

* * *

"_If you do not even know what this ring represents, girl…"_

_The woman's ruby red lips curve into a daring smirk, as she admires the jewellery adorning her slender finger with obsidian eyes,_

"_Then why do you hold so much value towards it?"_

* * *

'_It's the exact same thing as she said…_' Reina lowers her clenches fist down to her lap, '_and, still, I have no answer…_'

"I wish to go to Ludibrium, one day," she says all of a sudden.

"What?" Cecelia frowns – confused, at her sudden confession. Ludibrium, needless to say, was far too cheerful for her tastes…

Why in the world would Reina want to go _there_, of all places?

"There must be time machines in Ludibrium, right?" Reina gazes wistfully at the crack in the wall, "That means I have the ability to go back and witness everything that…"

"_Stop it_."

Reina's head snaps up, as she stares, incredulous, at the defiant girl crouching next to her, brow creased both in confusion and annoyance:

"Why does the past matter so much to you?"

"So I can find out the truth about my life."

"The _truth_?" Cecelia howls, "You want to know the truth about how you were born, and how you lived?"

Reina nods, resolute—determined.

"You're stupid," Cecelia sneers haughtily.

"_What_?"

"Can't you see that you are who you are now, not because of what you know," Cecelia blinks, "but, rather, what you _don't_ know?"

Reina blinks back, astounded—Cecelia was, indeed, correct. What she _did_ know hardly affected her as much as what she _didn't_…

"You see, Reina," Cecelia begins, "I occasionally have little arguments with myself. That makes me a _really_ messed up person, you know?"

'Oh, _I'm sure she didn't know that already._'

Ignoring her own sardonic remark, she brushes the words away; "But being messed up makes me, well… _me_," Cecelia smiles softly, "No matter what sort of pills my mother tries to feed me, or whatever my classmates say about it, I tell them that I don't want to be anything else other than crazy."

"Would you _not_ want to fix being crazy?"

Cecelia simply shakes her head, "If I was anything _other_ than crazy, then I'd just be your generic teenager; another Miss Bitchface who has aimlessly roamed this Earth."

Cecelia narrows her eyes, a smile still playing on her lips,

"You're a sad person because you cannot find your past," she tilts her head, her wistful smile turning reassuring, "and you have had a hard life trying to find it—it doesn't exactly get much easier from here, you know."

"I am aware of that, Cecelia," Reina's eyes grow listless.

"But that makes you stronger, Reina," Cecelia says methodically, "It makes you, y'know, _you_."

Reina narrows her eyes; but what of her past made her, well, _her_?

What happened to her that made her the way she was, stuck in the situation she was in? Like anyone else, she can't help but be curious about it…

"You don't need a time machine, Reina."

"And what makes you say _that_?"

"Because life, in itself, is a time machine," Cecelia laughs, "And the only direction it goes is forward. You shouldn't worry about your past, because you can't step backward to try and fix the person you are today – you can only deal with what's wrong with you now, and fix it for later."

"What about my past, then?"

"Forget–" Cecelia shakes her head, "Don't worry about your past. Whether you find it or not—somewhere down the road—shouldn't matter."

Reina mirror's Cecelia's expression – on her face was a contemplative smile, with a tinge of longing.

"You are correct, Cecelia," she finds a small laughter bubbling from inside of her, "I should look forward to the future, for it is pointless to linger in the past; and ponder over what cannot be changed…"

"You should live for the present," Cecelia offers, "It's better than brooding over the past, or wondering what the future holds – not when there are problems to be solved today, or were supposed to be solved yesterday."

"What…" Reina tilts her head, "Do you live _only_ for today? Do _you_ not wonder what the future holds for you?"

Cecelia pauses in thought.

"Because, if I try to see what my future holds," Cecelia elaborates—thinking off the top of her head, as per usual, of course, "Then I see nothing."

She makes her way back to her own bed with a sigh, "Such the cynic I am, no?"

"I think thinking about what _could be_ is more exciting than thinking about what _is_," Reina discusses, "But I am very sure that you disagree."

"I do," Cecelia leans back onto her flat, rock-hard pillow, "I _really_ do."

"What is your reason for doing so?"

"Because, in the future, all I see is my future and my life going to crap," Cecelia smirks, resting her hands on her stomach, "There's not much to look forward to, see… Birth; school; exams; university; dull, redundant job; retirement; adult diapers; _death_…"

"Why is your view on life so _dark_?"

"Because life isn't as pretty and sugar-coated as most of those _stupid_ fairy tales make it to be, Reina," Cecelia huffs, "In an ideal world, everyone find their prince charming, have a perfect family, own two Ferraris, live in a fucking castle, and become an astronaut, or a pop star, or a doctor – or whatever the hell we wanted to be as a kid…"

She heaves in a heavy breath, as she continues darkly.

"In an ideal world, everyone would live their life exactly the way they planned it," Cecelia lowers her darkened gaze, "But we don't live in an ideal world. We live in a _shithole_."

Reina fixes her a look, as Cecelia grows quiet.

"You're interesting to talk to, you know?" Cecelia looks to the cracked ceiling, "You might be a tad bit younger than me, but you have a lot more to say than most of my classmates… It's amazing how they can run their mouths like tap water, and yet say absolutely nothing at all."

"What _do_ your classmates say?"

Clearing her throat, Cecelia prepares to give the worst impersonation ever known to man:

"_Aha, oh-my-God!_"

Considering her over-exposure to the group of girls who rolled their skirts up to their butts and kissed posters of a certain fifteen year old pop star with the voice of a chipmunk, coupled with a couple of (free, thankfully) Speech lessons, Cecelia's interpretation of her classmates was oddly, perhaps painfully confronting albeit satirical.

"Taylor Lautner's abs!" she grins unashamedly, "_Like_, oh my God!"

After a plastic – though incredibly pretentious – giggle, Cecelia finds herself gagging from the sheer overload of stupidity that she had just made Reina witness.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ," she sighs, rubbing her temples, hoping that the stupidity wasn't contagious, "I _really_ hate my generation…"

"Taylor… Taylor Lautner?" Reina raises an eyebrow, "Jesus – effing – Christ?"

'_The worst book to have ever existed doesn't exist in this universe,_' she explains to herself, '_and neither does the concept of God and Jesus, apparently._'

"Superstar from where I'm from," Cecelia explains, "You probably don't know him."

Reina hums in mock understanding, nodding slowly, her expression still ridden with confusion.

'… _The next God-knows-how-long …_' Cecelia glances over to the other hospital-like bed, a smile tugging at the edge of her lip, '_should be quite interesting…_'

* * *

Fumbling with her pockets, the manager takes a step back, a bead of cold sweat threatening to roll down his forehead.

"Sorry for the trouble."

He lets out a sigh of relief, as she, instead, pulls out a beige sack from her near-limitless pockets. Gold coins almost spurted out of the seams; the sackcloth looked as though it would threaten to burst at any moment.

"Have a _lovely_ day," she gives a plastic smile, and a gentle wave with her good hand, before she haughtily steps out of the store, clutching at her bleeding hand.

As soon as she was out of sight, she heard the tea house roaring back to life—as it once was, before she decided it would be most appropriate to obliterate everything in sight.

"God _dammit_, Neinheart!" she hisses into the earpiece once again, her pockets now _much_ lighter than she'd like them to be, "At this rate, I'm going to go broke!"

'_Board the ship first thing tomorrow morning, eh?_'

Caspeona casually places her hands in her pockets, as she strolls along the dirt path, kicking dust at helpless shrooms…

"You better pay me back…"

* * *

Eleanor never liked being alone.

Swirling the bright purple liquid in the transparent glass vial, she peers at it, as she, for once, leaves her precious wine glass sitting on top of the table, and the endless piles of paperwork that she should be signing.

She stares at it, in amazement, as though it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Eleanor never likes being alone, with nothing to accompany her, except the memories, his voice, and the piles of paperwork at her feet.

Because, when she is alone, she reflects – and she remembers…

* * *

'**_If you drink this, my dear,_**_**then you shall be all-knowing.**__'_

_Clasping onto it tentatively, fourteen year-old Eleanor stares at the bottle with anticipation, and curiosity, violet eyes sparkling with mirth,_ "_What's in this bottle, my Lord?"_

'**_Right here, in this vial, child,_**_' he drawls, '__**is the secret to eternity.**__'_

* * *

… And Eleanor _really_ hates remembering.

"In this bottle, right here," she brings it closer to her face, swishing the glowering liquid inside, "is the secret to eternity, huh?"

'_What _exactly _do you mean…?_'

"… Eternity?"

Thankfully, the paperwork managed to cushion the fall of the small bottle, which otherwise would have shattered into tiny shards of shining glass and sparkling magic.

"Oh…" with swift, nimble fingers, she quickly stows away the strange concoction, "Francis! H-Hello…"

Though she never planned on drinking it in the first place—as _he_ was known to be a rather untrustworthy man—Eleanor decided that, for all it's worth, he _could_ be telling the truth.

As slim a chance as that was, the witch still kept the potion in the inner corner of her bottom drawer, and will keep it there for as long as she would live…

"I… Haha…" she laughs uneasily, "I d-didn't see you there."

Shutting her desk briskly, she flashes a smile.

"I'm bored, Eleanor," he whines.

"I'm sorry. I've given you nothing to do," her smile grows weaker, as she eyes the paperwork before her, "Would you like to–"

"No," he says swiftly, "thanks for the offer, anyway."

"Hm, it's alright," the witch hums, "It wouldn't be legal for you to even sign any of this paperwork, anyhow…"

Letting out a sigh of relief, the child puppeteer saunters over to the front of her desk, and pulls out the chair.

"What exactly is it that you want?"

Eleanor was never quite one to like small-talk.

'_So, I heard it was supposed to be sixteen degrees today._'

'_Oh, you bought a new washing machine, that's lovely…_'

'_Ah, what was it like at the bank?_'

In actuality, she never really _cared_ about that skirt in the shop window, the trip to the market, nor did she care whether it was raining or sunny…

"I just want to talk," he states curtly.

"You never _just_ want to talk," Eleanor crudely laughs, "You only want to chat with Baroq, or with Orca. Not the old, crazy woman sitting in her office – never me."

"Orca's busy, and Baroq's still away…"

"_What exactly is it you want?_" she repeats, harsher this time around.

Rolling his eyes, in a very Francis-like fashion, he finally sighs, "I sense something strange is going on," Francis intones, "something _very_ strange."

"Such as what?"

Francis looks down to the ground, twiddling his thumbs,

"… I have this weird feeling that there's someone—or some_thing_—after me…"

* * *

"Hm, interesting…"

The whimsical, crimson-haired man examines the doll closely, tracing his finger along the patched crevices.

"This is what you've found in eliminating all those pigs?"

"Yep!" she exclaims rather cheerily—far too cheerily, for Roca's tastes, but it's still refreshing to see someone so enthusiastic about their work.

"Right-o," he nods, looking at the doll from different angles, twisting it around, here and there, poking and prodding at it.

Tilting her head to the side, her jet-black ponytail nearly reaches the floor, "Is there anything you want me to do, now?"

"Not much, really," he waves her off, "Not until you're stationed in Henesys once again. For now…"

The thunder breaker bites her lip, a frown creasing her pretty face.

'_What…?_'

Yet, she lets him continue, as he gazes into the slowly-setting sun;

"Your service in Henesys is now complete."

Eyes glittering with happiness, a smile slowly—_very_ slowly—creeps up her face.

"R-Really?" she grins from ear to ear, laughing rather haughtily, like the ten year-old she once was, killing a tino for the first time with those brass knuckles of hers…

Is she truly one step to being on par with Hawkeye, or amongst the elite child prodigies like Andrew?

Is Casmilia really one step closer to being a chief thunder breaker?

Nodding, Roca gives a small, whimsical smile, as he turns back to her.

"Tomorrow morning, come back to receive my progress report," he extends his hand, "I want you to deliver it to Neinheart, along with this doll."

"W-Wait…" she blinks, "Does that mean I won't see you again?"

"You have truly been a pleasure to work with, Casmilia," he begins, "but I must bid you farewell, until you are assigned more missions around these parts."

In disappointment, Roca swears, for so much as a brief millisecond, that she had a glimmer of discontent in those hazel eyes of hers; of course, like the optimistic girl she is, that dejectedness was transformed into determination.

"You, too," she swirls on her heel, making sure her long, ebony ponytails don't slap him in the face as she does so, "It was fun working with you."

As Roca waves her goodbye, he sighs—half in satisfaction, and half in exhaustion—she makes her way to the nearest inn.

'_I'm not a kid anymore, Andrew…_' almost suddenly, there is a bounce in her step,_ 'You just watch!_'

* * *

"**_You have served your purpose well, François.*_**"

The shadow of a boy kneels at the foot of the grotesque figure of a man, his face hidden underneath a cloak as black as night,

"Lord Asmodius…"

"**_Yes, child?_**"

"For what reason did you command me to cast spells upon those mushrooms, then, subsequently, plant dolls into several monsters ?"

"**_For revenge._**"

"Revenge?" he intones, "revenge for _what_, and on _whom,_ exactly?"

"**_You will find out in due time, my friend…_**"

As a contorted laughter rings, like a cursed, demented church bell, through the cramped, glowering space that he liked to call a 'room'…

"… **_In due time._**"

Laughter has never sounded so cynical.

* * *

"Nonsense, Francis!" Eleanor hollers, "As long as I am here to protect you, you needn't worry."

With a wry laughter, she leans back in her chair, "Aha… Oh, Goddess…" she wipes a tear, shed from hysteria, from her eye, a smile still playing on her lips; "We're the Black Wings, darling. There's _always_ someone after one of us!"

"Isn't that sort of life torture?" Francis asks, "Always having someone, or the _thought_ of some_one_, or some_thing_ chasing after you… how have you dealt with it all these years?"

Dryly, Eleanor lifts up her wine glass, before taking a sip.

"This magical concoction," she says, glancing at the deep purple lipstick stain it left behind, "has also helped me deal with the other sadness of life—the death, the destruction…"

Eleanor takes another sip, tilting her head back ever so slightly.

"The _murder_…" she slurs.

"What's so great about _wine_, Eleanor?" Francis frowns, "I've heard it kills people."

Eleanor, once again, sets her glass down onto the ever-present paperwork lining her desk,

"Don't you want to have a taste, m'dear?" she gestures to the drink.

"Isn't this illegal?" he questions, with a raised eyebrow, as he slowly raises the cup to his lips.

"I've had my first sip of wine when I was your age—maybe a tad bit older," Eleanor smirks, "Though I didn't think it was half bad. I'm sure you'll be able to handle it."

'_The girls, surely, wouldn't…_' she wanted to add on.

Blinking, he tentatively takes a fraction of a sip.

"What does it taste like, Francis?"

Francis gags, as he quickly sets the glass back onto the table, a splotch of the crimson liquid dotting the paperwork.

"It…" he purses his lips, eyes squinted, "Like money…"

A clap, like a small crackle of thunder, followed by a tingling laughs rings through the spacious office;

He wipes his lips on his sleeve, gagging,

"It tastes like money…"

"_Aha_… Oh, _ha_, wow…" Eleanor tries to hold back laughter, failing to keep her face in a deadpan, "m-money… Haha!"

Francis finds a smile creeping up his own face – though the spicy taste still lingered and danced on his tongue…

"Haha…" he giggles.

Of _course_, half of Eleanor's savings was invested into saving up for a new Jacuzzi to be placed in the recreational room; the other half went to saving for the best, most delicious merlot or Bordeaux—not that Francis seemed to have had any taste for wine, at his age.

Their facilities were _bearable_, at best, but that would have to do, right?

What was life if you couldn't enjoy it sitting in a bathtub, swirling a cup of wine after a stressful day at work, anyway?

As laughter dies down to mere chuckles, Eleanor leans against her desk, in frail attempt to get closer to the boy; "I'm surprised, Francis," she cups her cheeks in her hands, elbows still leaning upon her desk, "that Baroq isn't your biological father."

"Aha… _Ha_…"

His laughter grows darker, and yet, she continues, "That's _exactly_ the sort of thing that he would say."

Francis lowers his gaze, smile slowly widening – though not in merriment, like most smiles indicated.

'… _Ha._'

"I really _do_ wish that you and Baroq were my real parents, you know," he says mournfully.

Eleanor snaps out of her dream-like trance, her lips previously creased into a small smile now twitching downward. A tense silence sits between the two of them.

"… Oh, my," she chimes in rather awkwardly, "Well, won't you look at the time!"

She rises from her chair, and takes Francis's trembling hand in her own,

"We must summon the rest of the live-in residents to dinner, yes?"

Curtly, Francis nods, as he is practically dragged out of the room by the Black Witch.

* * *

A flash of lightning brightens the murky, cloudy sky, followed by a clap of thunder, the symphony of storm accompanied by the tiny _pit-pat_ of rain against a makeshift shelter…

"I-I really needed to plan this out more…" his teeth chatter.

A boy priest trembles, hugging his faux chipmunk tail as much as he could around his over-exposed form, pulling his duck cap lower.

'_I'm sorry, the last ship to Orbis has just left,_' the shipmaster had cried, '_I'm afraid you'll have to catch the next ship, scheduled for tomorrow morning. I see you have brought camping supplies; the nearest inns most likely won't take many more people after this time, so I suggest you spend the night here…_'

Shutting his now dulled green eyes, he lets sleep overtake him, not knowing whether he would wake up in the morning – without his fingers or toes turning blue, anyhow.

'_I _really_ should have planned this out …_'


	13. Freedom

**Chapter 13: Freedom**

"You _could_ try chewing, you know," Baroq remarks wryly, stabbing his fork into a piece of tomato paste-covered meatball.

Gulping down her food, like the incredibly _sophisticated_ girl she is, Cecelia simply frowns in response, as she swallows more of that heated-in-the-microwave-and-popped-into-a-bowl spaghetti. Why bother _chewing_ spaghetti if it could so easily be swallowed, anyhow?

'_Well, you can't blame _me_ for being starved all day!_' Cecelia feels the need to bite back, if she weren't munching on a mouthful of food.

Instead, she opts to give the older magician a dirty look, as he scoops food into his own mouth.

"Now, _now_, children," Eleanor instructs, "We must eat peacefully. There are already some members falling asleep as of this moment."

The witch then peers over to the seat next to Baroq, where a certain puppeteer was noisily gulping down his food even louder than _Cecelia_ was, a feat she thought wasn't possible.

"Oh, and, Francis, try and eat more tidily. I have to hand-wash those robes, you know," she sighs, "The washing machine can't get the stains out. I should let you know that you have _only_ one set. It's dirty enough, already, see? Look at those stains!"

Francis huffs, as he rubs his fork all over his already-grimy robes.

With an aggravated sigh, Eleanor rubs her temples, "What _are_ you doing?"

"The tomato looks like blood," he explains, with a grin spreading across his features, "So, when I go out, it'll make me look more deadly. No-one will want to mess with me…!"

He laughs darkly. Whilst Reina stifles a giggle, and Baroq and Eleanor proceeded to roll their eyes, Cecelia couldn't care less, as she continues to scoop food in her mouth.

"You may be a _genius_ puppeteer, sweetheart," Eleanor begins, "But you certainly won't look the part while you reek of _meat sauce._"

With a glint in her eye, the witch leans over to grab his fork in breakneck speed.

"H-Hey!"

"Now, _eat_."

Eleanor places her fork as far away from him as possible, as he leans over the table to grab it back.

"What _with_?" he pulls back with an indignant whine, looking down at his bowl of spaghetti incredulously.

The Black Witch smirks, "No reward without effort," she drawls, "and, similarly, no crime without punishment."

Francis digs in with his fingers, pulling out a meat ball begrudgingly with his thumb and forefinger.

"Ugh…"

Cecelia, in the meanwhile, takes it upon herself to stick her tongue out at the young puppeteer.

"Shut up," he frowns, shooting an icy glare at the novice magician.

Cecelia giggles, a piece of spaghetti hanging out of the corner of her lip,

"I never said anything!"

"_Enough_ of this idle chatter!" Eleanor commands, a scowl penetrating her features, "I was simply disciplining Francis! I demand _silence_ from this moment onwards!"

Everyone lowers their heads again, munching in silence;

"Nothing more, nothing less," Eleanor buries her fork into her own pasta, "your task here is to simply eat, put your dishes away, and get out."

"Won't there be dessert today, Eleanor?" Francis squeaks.

"Yes, there will be," she nods, with a gentle smile, "Just vanilla ice-cream today: no more chocolate mousse for you, since we're on a tight budget."

Francis smiles, suppressing the need to jump up and cheer, for fear of being reprimanded once again. His gaze then whips over to the girl seated at the other end of the table,

"The ice-cream is nice, Cecelia," he beams, "It's home-made. Don't you want to try some?"

"No thanks," she grumbles, muffled by the food still being shovelled into her mouth, "Ice-cream makes me fat, especially since home-made ice-cream has extra cream, and sugar, and…"

"Yeah, you're right," Francis' grin grows cheeky, as Cecelia is snapped out of her thoughts, "though, I've heard of a good way to lose a couple of pounds."

Cecelia leans in to listen closer to his oh-so-divine secret, Francis covering his cheeky expression with his teal sleeve.

"What is it?"

Blinking, eyes innocent as ever, his face darkens into a deadpan, "If you use your brain a little bit more, then, maybe, you'd lose a couple of calories, and you wouldn't _have_ to watch your weight so much!"

"You fucking _twerp_!"

"_Eat!_"

* * *

_The next morning…_

* * *

'_Shit._'

"A-Andrew?"

His widened eyes beheld the sight of those too-cheerful golden eyes of hers, the jet-black ponytails that hung by her waist in two (now-knotted) tresses, and the smile that spread across her features - he swore, there was a tear glistening in her eye…

Two days.

It had only been _two days_…

"Andrew, is that really you?" she gushes, nearly dropping the yellowing parchment in her hand,

'_Shit, shit, shit…_'

"Goddess! I haven't seen you in _ages_!"

"Y-Yeah… Uh…" he rubs the back of his head sheepishly, letting out a groggy yawn, "Hi."

'_What the hell am I doing…_' he resists the urge to bang his head against the massive tree trunk that extended beyond the clouds…

"What _are_ you doing here?" she questions, a pout adorning her face, "I thought you wanted to stay in Victoria, and lead a peaceful life as a priest, and slowly train yourself to become a bishop, or something like that…"

"Well, I've set out on another little adventure," Andrew explains, "and, _yes_, it's as stupid as it sounds."

"Adventure…?" Casmilia inquires, "For what?"

"Trying to find something—or, rather, some_one_—who I've lost for years…" he smiles fancifully, looking up the still-dark sky, brightening at the edges.

"What's that?" she steps forward, "Who's this _someone_ that you speak of?"

Andrew turns back to her, brilliant green eyes sparkling with mirth,

"Have I ever told you about my sister, Casmilia?"

Casmilia shakes her head, "Have I ever mentioned _my_ sister?" she retorts, "She's the coolest person 'round, I'll say."

Over-bearing, white-haired, obnoxious, narcissistic, and slightly psychotic night walker of Ereve; none other than _Caspeona_, of all people… Andrew mentally cringes—there wasn't any sarcasm laced through her words, as she smiles at the thought of her sister.

"A-Are you sure you don't have another sister?" his brow creases, "I'm not sure if you're talking about the right person…"

A deep, distinct—and rather aggravated—voice chimes in rather haughtily,

"No, she doesn't, as a matter of fact."

* * *

"_This is a reminder that you are to refrain from smoking or using skills on board the air ship. Thank you._"

He lets the wind tousle his hair ever so slightly, as his eyes squinted as the too-bright sun reflects off the gold trimming of his mask.

'_At least,_' Eckhart smiles, optimistic for once, '_This isn't all some sugar-coated illusion…_'

Perhaps, through making amends, he would finally be free—right?

His head snaps up, as the ship slowly begins to descend from the clouds – the view of ships slowly sailing from Lith Harbour, to Henesys, to the notorious Nautilus; from Ellinia, stretching all the way to the peaks of Perion.

Even the smog surrounding the bustling city called Kerning made his jaw hang from its hinges.

Victoria.

Breath-taking, stunningly _real_ Victoria Island…

At last, he is home.

Even the crackle of the microphone, along with the abrupt descent of the small ship couldn't prompt Eckhart to be torn away from the lush land slowly closing in,

"_We would like to remind you that it is_ _not, as a matter of fact, company policy to_ not _pawn away any items left behind on the ferry. Therefore, it is advised that you take any precious items you have brought aboard, including mesos, chaos scrolls, and small children,_" it echoes, "_Thank you for flying with us–_"

"Coming through!"

"Excuse me!"

Before the intercom had even cut off, a stampede of Cygnus Knights, old people, and crying children ran past—and, eventually, over—him in their hurried attempt to get home, finish missions, or otherwise just get off of the stuffy ship.

Grunting, an expletive rolling off his tongue, he winces as he dives face-first into the floor, porcelain mask clattering to the deck.

"Are you going to get off the ship?"

He looks up to the source of the booming voice, reaching out to grab his mask again. None other than Kiriru, the ship master, tapping his large foot impatiently.

"S-Sorry…" Eckhart stammers, donning his mask once again.

Stepping off the boat, hands in his pockets, he breathes in a gulp of fresh air – certainly, the compressed air inside the force field of the air-ferry was hardly breathable…

'_Mother of Goddess…_' he blinks.

"Oh, have I got a surprise for you…" he hears from a distance, the voice familiar.

Peering around the port, where the last of the passengers flooded through the Six Path Crossway gates, he spots a familiar spiked silver bob, and a set of ebony ponytails.

* * *

"Get up, _get up_, everyone!"

The witch, once again, prances around the room, and, once again, she leaves a trail of broken lamps, trampled pillows, as well as stripped blankets in her wake.

"My, oh my!" she cries out in her usual sing-song voice, "Your room is abhorrent!"

"Gh…" Cecelia grunts, clutching at her head, "Aren't you making it _worse_, Eleanor?"

"This is _nothing_, my dear," the necromancer smiles rather viciously, "I'll show you what I can _really_ do, unless you get out of bed!"

"Oh my God…"

The black-haired teenager flings her legs over the edge of the mattress, muttering begrudgingly to herself as she does so.

"Reina?" Eleanor inquires.

Cecelia's head snaps around to take a look at her partner, who was still buried under her covers – obviously feigning sleep: a little (too obvious; too _fake_) snore escaped her lips, even…

"What about you?" she continues.

Quite obviously defeated and dejected, her façade unveiled, the small girl speaks up, "I-I do not wish to get up…"

"Reina…" Cecelia says warily.

"If you refuse to get up, _Lady Reina_," Eleanor sneers mockingly, "Then you will be unable to attend breakfast this morning, and discuss what activities we must participate in today."

'_Not again…_'

"I do not wish to get up." Reina repeats, tugging the covers to mask her expression—which is, in all honesty, completely and utterly horrified.

'Never_ again…_'

"Get your arse out of bed, Reina," Cecelia grumbles, as she tugs on her bony arm.

Letting out a squeal, she grimaces as Cecelia manages to – somehow – press against every single bruise on her arm.

"Gah!"

Biting at her lip, Reina uses her other hand to claw at Cecelia's bare arm.

"Fine, _fine_!" she howls, as she pushes Cecelia off with as much force as possible. Considering her strength and her grogginess, that wasn't very much…

"Good girl, Cecelia," Eleanor smiles, "I shall award you with another slice of bacon at breakfast."

Cecelia raises an eyebrow, as Eleanor glances at her.

"Th-Thank you?"

Swirling on her heel, a feat that she managed to do without twisting her ankle with those stilettos of hers, to the girls' surprise, Eleanor looks apologetically at the grey-eyed girl sprawled out on the floor.

"I must apologize, Reina, for setting up such a hard training regime on your _first_ day here," she slowly makes her way to the door, "However, today, I have assigned another easier task for you both to complete, as you are both injured."

Leaning against the door frame, she gives one last glance at the both of them.

"I shall discuss this with you over breakfast," she grabs hold of the door handle, "Ciao!"

_Slam!_

"Yeah, fine," Cecelia huffs indignantly, subconsciously rubbing the lump on her head, "Don't apologize for clobbering me over the head… That's cool, too…"

'_I'm pretty sure that Reina's more battered up than you are_,' she says, '_and probably twice as traumatized, too._'

"That's no excuse to be afraid of getting out of bed – God dammit…"

'_Alright-y, then,_' she sighs to herself, '_whatever you say._'

"… Shithead."

Reina can't help but giggle at Cecelia's inane ramblings to herself…

That was, until she looks up at the older girl.

Cecelia, with her extremely knotted morning-hair, clearly evident eye bags, a line of white extending from the corner of her lip, and last, but not least, dull grey eyes with murderous intent; needless to say, she certainly is _not_ a morning person.

"Get the hell up," she mutters under her breath, as she lightly kicks Reina's hand away, sauntering over to the door.

* * *

"C-Caspeona!" Casmilia cries out, half from excitement, and half in surprise, "What brings you here?"

The to-be chief night walker simply smirks in response, "Oh, have I got a surprise for you…"

"What is it?" Casmilia clasps her hands together, bringing them to her face in a mock attempt to hide her blatant prying.

"Yeah, what is it?" Andrew mirrors.

"_Yeah._"

Not daring to turn around, the thief feels her heart—almost literally—skip a beat, at the sound of his voice, eyes widening ever so slightly.

"What is it, Caspeona?"

'_Wh-What…_'

Her younger sister gasps—her ponytails never fail to slap Andrew in the face as she twirls around to take in the sight of (who once was) the chief knight walker.

"E-Eckhart!" the thunder breaker cries out in surprise.

What is he doing outside of Ereve?

Giving a small wave, Eckhart mutters, "Bonjour."

"All aboard the ferry to Ereve!" Kiriru hollers rather unenthusiastically.

While Casmilia finds herself twirling around again, Andrew takes a step back, his cheek still burning from that last slap_._

"C'mon, Andrew!" she clasps into his wrist, "The ship leaves two minutes after it docks!"

'_Are you serious?_' he wanted to groan out in a mixture of annoyance and slight grief—perhaps a tinge of relief, seeing as he was being dragged away from Caspeona, but_…_

"What about Caspeona?" he asks begrudgingly.

"I need to get to Ereve as soon as possible," she mutters, steps growing brisk, "Neinheart needs me, and we can't miss this ship."

As the two young teenagers board the ship, Caspeona simply watches from afar, as Casmilia prattles off about seemingly nothing at all. Seeing from the look on Andrew's face, it was probably about Hawkeye.

Again.

"You really _do_ creep me out, y'know that?" she sneers, the edge of her lip twitching in disgust, "What the hell _are_ you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm here to make amends, of course," Eckhart places his hands in his pockets, "What are _you_ doing, going to Ereve? I heard you were on a vacation, travelling around the world after being overworked…"

'_Like the rest of us…_' he wanted to mutter soon after, though, he opted to keep his mouth shut.

From the beginning, he had explained to all of his disciples, in excruciating detail, that being a night walker included serving justice in places where light does not reach; little did his students know, that included the limelight.

"I'm going back to take on _your_ duties," she snarls, "You wimp."

"Caspeona!"

As though on cue, the horn blares out, as the thunder breaker gives an involuntary wince at the sharp sound ringing right next to her, as she runs as fast as her little legs could take her, to the edge of the ship.

"Are you coming? The ship's about to leave, Cas!" the younger teenager calls out, "Hurry up!"

"I'm here to have a word with Eckhart!" she hollers back, "I'll just catch the next ship!"

"What?" her voice, still strong, falters slightly, "Are you _sure_?"

"Ferries come every ten minutes after this one!" Caspeona shouts back, "I'm sure you'll have a better time not being stuck with me!"

A smirk creeps up Casmilia's childish features.

"Alright then!" she waves her off, as the dock keeper unhooks the rope binding the ship to the harbour, "Try not to kill him, okay?"

"Ha!" Caspeona has a similar smirk playing on her lips, "I promise not to!"

While Casmilia is whirred away by the ship, still waving madly as the horn sounds through the skies, Eckhart can't help but let out a chuckle—Caspeona then glances at him over her shoulder, with a hand on her hip, turning her back to him once again.

"The hell are _you_ laughing at?" she shoots him a dirty look.

"Oh, nothing at all," Eckhart chortles, looking down at his petite ex-student, "I'm just happy that I get to talk to my _favourite_ disciple, after such a long time…"

She laughs dryly at the notion.

"_Favourite_. Don't make me laugh."

"Turn around," he orders.

Caspeona glances at him over her shoulder a second time, eyebrow raised.

"Why?"

"I want to see how you've changed," he urges, "that, and it's pretty awkward talking to someone's back. I can't hear you, since you're talking _away_ from me…"

"I can't hear you too well, either, under that mask," she retorts, "and, technically, I am now your boss. You shouldn't be the one to order me around like this."

"I'm your _teacher_, Caspeona," he corrects, "and I just want to see how you've changed over the past, oh, I don't know… Two years?"

With a sigh, she finds herself _very_ slowly stepping around, neon pink cape brushing against her thighs.

"This is only because you asked."

Caspeona crosses her arms again, trying to appear as lax as she possibly could – in truth, her heart beat painfully in her chest, as he looks her up and down.

"Hm, that's funny."

"What is?" she bites.

"You sound so much more mature than before," he muses, "but you look the exact same…"

"Cut the crap, Eckhart," she narrows her eyes.

"Mm?" he hums.

"Why did you leave the organization?"

* * *

"Well, girls, eat up."

Cecelia takes a glance at her fried eggs, toast and bacon—it appears to be sub-par, compared to breakfast the day before…

"Where _is_ everyone?" her voice echoes through the empty dining hall, as she pokes at a piece of poached egg, nose wrinkled.

'_Soggy leftovers…_'

Reluctantly, she cuts away a piece of egg, bringing it to her lips.

"The sun has already risen, as I said," the witch yawns, "therefore, it is most likely that everyone is out on some sort of mission, or otherwise waiting to be assigned a task in the recreational room."

Cecelia simply nods, an eyebrow raised.

"Lady Eleanor," Reina cuts away at a piece of egg, while the girl next to her munches away noisily on a slice of bacon, "You mentioned this morning that we are to discuss our activities for today, for we cannot train due to injury."

"Ah, of course, girls…" Eleanor smirks, leaning back in her seat, "It isn't a hassling task at all. You'll have _fun_, I assure you."

"What _is_ this task, exactly?" bits of bacon fly out of Cecelia's mouth.

However soggy and terrible the food looked, it tastes absolutely divine—of course, all the food in this place tastes strangely good. Magically enhanced, perhaps?

'_Hah…_' her laughter reverberates through her brain, '_Your thought process is hilarious!_'

"We. Are. The. Same. Person!" she took the time to point out yet again.

'_Well, yeah, whatever, crazy girl,_' she retorts, '_We all know you're bat shit._'

"_Fuck off_!" Cecelia hisses under her breath.

"Yes," Reina cuts in for Cecelia, who proceeds to stab her fork into her toast angrily, inaudible profanities escaping her lips, "What is the task we are being assigned today?"

"Oh, _milady_," Eleanor says lightly, though mockingly, ignoring Cecelia as best as she possibly could, "Would you _really_ like to know, and spoil the surprise?"

"I would prefer to know what I am getting myself into," Reina interjects dryly, "Thank you very much."

'_Hopefully it is not anything similar to what happened yesterday…_'

"Oh, _very_ well," Eleanor flicks her head to the side, in mock attempt to get her fringe to get her fringe out of her face—but to no avail, "I am going to get you both to do a bonding exercise, since you both will be stuck with one another for a while, no?"

"A while…?"

A chuckle escapes parted purple lips,

"Until one of you either leaves, or otherwise dies, that is," her gaze grows dark, "Not that there's much of a difference, anyway."

Eleanor leans her elbow against her chair, chuckling darkly,

"You'd know, Reina."

Biting her lip, Reina finds her gaze being directed back down towards her food, still poking at her piece of toast with a butter knife.

* * *

"Well, just a warning to you, Caspeona," he smirks, "As one of the chief knights of Ereve, you must sign a contract that makes you swear to a lifetime of celibacy at the very beginning of your term—that's enough of a reason to leave, no?"

Eckhart sighs, before continuing,

"Most of us signed up crap for this when we were children – either that, or we were born into it," he elaborates, "Chances are, we didn't even know how to spell our own names; let alone read the fine print."

"Shit," Caspeona breathes, "that's pretty terrible, and everything, but I know you…"

Eckhart lets out another wry laugh.

"You're not a horn dog like Hawkeye," she concludes, a knowing smirk written across her face, "and, therefore, _that_ isn't the real reason."

She tilts her head to the side, stepping forward,

"This really _is_ too sudden, even for you, of _all_ people."

He smiles brokenly, "Actually, it's quite a gradual process."

"… _What_ is?"

"Going mad."

"_I know you_," Caspeona repeats, rolling her eyes, "you were _always_ bat-shit crazy."

"Okay, I was rather strange to begin with, sure," he sighs, turning his head, "but it's sort of gotten worse after I arrived at Ereve."

His ex-student narrows her eyes.

"How so?"

"How would you like it if the entire world you lived in for most of your life was a _lie_?"

Caspeona finds her mouth gaping open, hanging from her seemingly unhinged jaw…

"Shinsoo creates illusionary monsters, illusionary weather, illusionary water…" he interjects before she can retort, not that she is able to, "Too many things are illusionary, and I can't even tell what's real anymore."

He lowers his dark gaze, before continuing on,

"So, if all that happiness I felt is as fake as the sky, the clouds, and the snow…"

'_All fake?_'

"Is what you're feeling, in truth, sadness?" Caspeona finishes for him, "Are all our feelings, all our sacrifices, simply a lie?"

Eckhart smiles fancifully, yet longingly, as the honk of a ship echoes through the port.

"It's a good question, I won't lie…" she hums.

"If _all_ my feelings were some sort of twisted delusion…"

He frowns, '_Was I really…?_'

"_Are_ they, Eckhart?"

"Frankly, I'd really like to think that they aren't," he replies.

"Hm," Caspeona peers into the distance, the distinct shape of a ship hidden among the clouds coming into view, "Well, I'll think about it."

_Honk, honk…_

"Think about what?" he turns back to her.

"If the lives we are living are all a lie," Caspeona enunciates pensively, "I'm going to think if our sacrifices are truly worth it."

A crowd of people clamber off the tiny boat, which rocks from the force of everyone's mad dash to get to land.

"All aboard the ferry to Ereve!" the shipmaster bellows once more, as the last person scrambles off the ship.

Caspeona turns around to look at him again, a small smile playing on her lips,

"I probably won't ever see you again," she says sadly, "So, I must bid you farewell."

He swears, from the corner of her eye, there was a tear forming.

Caspeona.

… _Crying_.

Eckhart shakes his head at the very notion.

'_No…_'

Notoriously rumoured sociopath, cold-as-ice _Caspeona_ never cried.

Eckhart pats her on the head, and ruffles her hair, like one would do to a younger sibling, as he pretends not to notice.

"I wish you the best of luck, as well."

"Ditto," Caspeona presses her lips together, as she clambers onto the boat, not daring look at him in the eye again.

Eckhart waves, as she slowly descends up into the heavens – the to-be chief night walker takes one last look at Victoria. She places a gloved hand over her mouth, in an attempt to stifle the sobs.

"What have I gotten myself into…"

'_If it's all a lie…_'

Caspeona takes one last, desperate glance at freedom and happiness, before it is shrouded by the dark storm clouds, as she lets the tears fall.

'_Then why am I doing this…_?'


	14. Memories

**Chapter 14: Memories**

Cecelia gazes around the surprisingly well-lit room, chandelier-like fixtures hanging from the ceiling, lighting the extravagant checked marble floor.

"So, this is what they spend all their money on, eh?"

Over in the corner of the room, as a very expensive-looking lounge, complete with an old-fashioned television set, along with vintage couches, and a matching coffee table.

Over in the other corner, was a girl with long, hair fair that she tied into ponytails, violet eyes sparkling, as she was playing a game of pool with what appeared to be…

A golem…?

"Hello Orchid, Dargoth," Eleanor waves at both of them, a small, plastic smile adorning her lips.

"I _told_ you to call me Orca," the girl—named Orchid, or Orca, or _whatever_ she wanted to be—replies curtly, tongue sticking out in concentration.

The man made of stone keeps his mouth shut, simply nodding back to the Black Witch.

"Instead of proper showers, and pillows that aren't filled with rocks," Cecelia huffs indignantly, a hand on her hip, "They opt to spend money on pool tables, and fancy couches…"

"Oh, hush, Cecelia, we don't spend _all_ of our money on the recreational room…" Eleanor waves Cecelia away nonchalantly, almost swatting away her words, "Where do you think I get all my wine from?"

To this, Reina frowns.

"… M-Magic?" she intones.

"_Hah!_"

The clack of heels against stone resound through the room, as, in the other corner of the spacious hall-like room, was a couple of tables, with forms sprawled out on them.

"What _are_ these for?" Reina picks one up, examining the sheet closely.

"_These_," Eleanor snatches the paper out of her frail hand, "Are for the little exercise that you will carry out today."

Cecelia frowns, "We're filling out _forms_?"

"We're going to pin them up on the 'new members' board, right there," Eleanor elaborates, pointing to a very dusty-looking billboard in the far corner of the room, "After you both exchange forms and find out more about each other, of course."

She then gestures to some very rickety chairs surrounding the table.

"Please be seated, then, girls."

'_This is _some_ bullshit…_' inner-Cecelia mutters.

And, for possibly the first time ever, Cecelia found herself nodding in agreement to her own snarky remarks.

"I shall go and join Orca in a game of pool," she swirls on her heel, magenta robes nearly slapping them in the face as she does so, "Farewell!"

Cecelia huffs, as she watches Eleanor saunter over to the other side of the room.

"Tch…" her nose wrinkles, as she picks up the pencil.

* * *

The sounds of birds chirping in their nests, basking in their canopies under a wash of the morning sun, surprisingly shining brightly for that time of year…

Other than those peaceful sounds, the only sound sitting between them—other than Casmilia's silent grumblings to herself about a 'lazy asshole'—was the crunch of leaves and twigs under her boots, and his bare feet.

Clearing his throat in a painfully awkward fashion, Andrew finally breaks the silence, "What's wrong? You seem pretty pissed off."

Casmilia clenches her fist.

"Neinheart…" she narrows her eyes, hissing her words through gritted teeth, "You lazy, _lazy_… Ugh! Goddess!"

Andrew winces, as he dares not look into her eyes, filled with hatred and inconsumable rage, he assumes.

"What's wrong with Kerning City?" he laughs nervously.

Casmilia, in general, was made out to be a sweet—albeit rather air-headed—girl by most people, close to her or not.

But, when she's mad… Oh, she's _mad_.

"He made me go all the way from Henesys to Ereve, just so he could take the stupid doll," she grumbles lowly, "And stationed me in _Kerning City_!"

Howling out in sheer rage, she clutches at her head, feeling the urge to tear her pretty black hair out.

"Of _all_ places," Casmilia grumbles irately, stomping onto the ship.

Andrew cringes internally, '_Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, huh…_'

"H-Hey," he interjects, "_I_ – for one – think that Kerning City is a cool place."

"'_Cool_' places…" she grimaces, "Don't generally smell like smog and sewerage."

"The sunset's always nice."

"That's only because of the _pollution_, Andrew. The light's scattered more because of the smoke, or something."

"The buskers always put on a nice show," he defends, "If you pay them more than ten mesos, then they won't beat you up."

_Crackle, fizz_…

If Andrew learned one thing about Casmilia over the course of an entire year, it was that she would never, _ever_ be able to take a loss, much less handle losing a friendly debate.

The distinct sound of static echoes through the forest, birds chirping as they flee from the canopies. Casmilia narrows her eyes, the neon yellow-green flash reflected in her golden orbs, as she raises her crackling fist.

… Not without punching the life out of him, anyhow.

The next fact that ran through his head was that he would never, _ever_ want to find out what it was like to be clobbered in the face with lightning-infused brass knucklers. By a girl. A girl _years_ younger than him, no less…

"Go on," she mumbles darkly.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he finds himself lowering his duck cap, as he lets the silence resettle, as the no-longer fresh grasses begin to crunch under the soles of his feet.

Drying, dead grasses slowly give way to blocks of dull red dotting the path—or lack thereof—they tread upon.

Before he knows it, the singular bricks of red clumped together into a path, as a looming shadow of a town comes into view.

Raising his gaze, he blinks as he takes in the wonderful sight. So close, yet so far; towers and apartment complexes, from ascend into the sky, touching the clouds, the bricks around them enveloped in a fluorescent orange.

"Oh, heh," he smiles nervously, scratching the back of his head, "Won't you look at that…"

Looking to his left, the thunder breaker shivers—not in anticipation, but, rather, in blatant distress.

This time, it is her turn to laugh nervously, "T-To Kerning City we go…"

* * *

"Cecelia," Reina whispers.

"Mm?" the older girl nibbles on the end of the pencil, a notoriously terrible habit of hers that hasn't left her ever since she started in first grade.

'_The paint's probably gotten to your brain…_'

"Yeah, that's how you came to exist," Cecelia rolls her eyes, "You're the product of the yellow paint that I nibbled off pencils over the years."

Reina ignores her hushed whispers to herself, as she intones warily,

"Do not write _any_ information on this sheet of paper," she narrows her eyes, as she taps her finger against the form, "Nothing _accurate_, anyway."

Cecelia frowns,

"Why's that?"

"Well…" Reina runs a hand through her straw-like hair with a sigh, "Just take a good look at it, won't you?"

Cecelia's eyes scan over the sheet of paper.

'_Family name, given name, birthplace, date of birth, interests…_' she flips over the page; there was nothing more, nothing less…

"What's wrong?" Cecelia inclines her head, "Looks like a regular form, to me."

"Looks are quite deceiving, are they not?"

Not bother—nor caring enough—to overthink such a trivial matter, Cecelia scrawls out her family name in what could be seen as the messiest handwriting ever known to man.

"Whatever, man," she bites at her lip, "It's not like I have anything to hide, you know?"

Reina, similarly though begrudgingly writes out her personal details in cursive, pursing her lips.

'… _But _I _do._'

The scratching of pencils against paper, the clacking of a cue ball, that occasional grunt or '_Aha! I win!_', along with the whirring of the boiler—which is conveniently placed directly next to where their tiny desk was set—were the only sounds resounding through the recreational room.

Cecelia taps her pencil against the desk, as she, in the most discreet way she could possibly manage, took a gander at this 'Orca' person.

Long, blonde hair hung in ponytails swinging by her hips, her translucently pale skin contrasting against her black-and-gold uniform, that hat covering one of her violet eyes…

"Psst, Reina…" Cecelia hisses under her breath.

It took her all of her willpower to not bury her face in the middle of her palm right there and then.

'_Nexon, oh, Nexon,_' Cecelia rolls her eyes, '_You're going to get _so _much shit for this…_'

"Yes?" she continues to scribble.

"Do you reckon they have gas chambers around here?"

The clack of a pen as it hits the stone floor sounds, her jaw hanging from its hinges. She doesn't even care enough to pick up her pen, as she hollers, "Wh-_What?_"

'_Gas chambers?_'

Reina glares at her incredulously, as Cecelia stares blankly into the distance, almost as though listening to _something_ attentively…

"The holocaust doesn't exist, either, apparently," she mumbles pensively, "Huh… Fascinating…"

'_The holocaust was more, well… Y'know, _sad_, than anything,_' she snorts at herself, '_You sick fuck._'

"Fascinating as in I have to forget everything about where I came from to adapt to stuff here, you idiot," she snarls back, "That I just have to throw all the concepts I know so well out the window…"

'_But, that doesn't apply…'_

"What?"

'_You know _nothing_._'

"… Shut up."

'_Seriously, when was the last time that you studied for a History test, huh?_'

"I said…" she mumbles through gritted teeth.

"What _are_ you prattling on about?" Reina narrows her eyes doubtfully, as her chin rests on the edge of the table, patting her hand against the floor in a frail attempt to find her pencil.

"N-Nothing at all, R-Reina," Cecelia stammers, "If you studied the history of where I came from, then you'd understand… Heh…"

'_If you didn't procrastinate all those history tests, maybe–"_

"Hey, it's your fault that we failed History for the past two years!" she argues, "Not me! I took no part in it!"

'_We're the same person! You said so!_'

"Gah!"

"Well," Reina clears her throat awkwardly, scratching the back of her head, "have you finished filling out your form yet?"

Cecelia presses her finger against her sheet, "Sure."

Gliding seamlessly across the table, Cecelia crosses her fingers—_hopefully_, by some sort of miracle, it would make its way to Reina without flying off the table, as it usually did…

"Here it goes…" Reina mutters, as she stops it with her forefinger.

Blinking, Cecelia scans over the sheet.

"Did you fill out the form _at all_?"

"Yes," Reina's eyes scan over her own piece of paper, not bothering to look up, "I filled out as much as I could."

Cecelia flips Reina's sheet around.

"You filled out your first name," she taps the top of the sheet, "and that's it."

Glancing up, Reina shrugs.

"Why don't we just pretend to be filling out these forms?" she replies, "I feel not the need to give any personal information."

Cecelia tilts her head to the side, her hair nearly touching the dusty wall.

"I figured you didn't fill out anything because you didn't remember your family, and everything," she says uneasily, "but, sure… okay."

She finds herself staring down ad the sheet once again, as though the paper held the very meaning of life itself.

"Why won't you fill out the form?"

"You do not come from Edelstein, I see…" Reina hums.

Cecelia raises an eyebrow, "What the hell are you on about?"

Reina looks around shiftily, before leaning forward – she urges Cecelia to do the same.

"I graduated from the academy a while ago," she begins, her voice lowering into a whisper, "and joined the Resistance."

"The resistance…?" Cecelia frowns, "Against _what_?"

Reina blinks, "I suppose it's fair enough, seeing as we have all disguised ourselves as regular citizens. And, here I was, thinking our disguises weren't subtle enough…"

She giggles meekly.

"I shall assume that is reasonable."

"What did you do in this Resistance thing?"

Reina's smile turns wistful, "Fight against the Black Wings."

Cecelia's eyes widen,

"But we _are_ in the…"

Reina's grin falters.

"I am here for a very different reason from you."

* * *

"Going for a more _subtle_ form of interrogation, eh?"

Orca laughs shrilly, as she looms over the older magician.

"I guess I am," Eleanor presses her lips together, as she pulls over a seat, "My last technique didn't get too much out of her. The other one doesn't know anything, as far as I can tell…"

Orca glances behind her to the young puppeteer, still moving his dolls around by those bright gold strings.

"Francis is _so_ useful, isn't he?" she chuckles sardonically.

"Of _course_ he is," Eleanor replies, leaning back in her chair, lowering her gaze so that her bangs draped over her troubled expression.

'_Francis…_'

More than he cared enough to admit, the puppet master's strange little hunches were almost _never_ right.

His puppets couldn't speak to him, as he so firmly believed they did, _that_ much was certain.

Francis was simply a boy, a boy with a vivid imagination – perhaps too vivid, to the point that it had thrown him into a magical world full of endless fantasies.

And yet, she spends hundreds of thousands – millions, perhaps – of mesos on anti-ageing creams and serum to reverse the effects of the lines creasing her forehead, as she furrows her brow in endless stress, frustration and worry.

Perhaps not _completely_ on his part, yet, the thought still lingered in the back of her mind, whenever he says those sorts of things.

_"I feel like there's someone, or something after me—"_

—What if he is right, this time around?

'_What if he's really going to…_?' she grimaces at the very thought of it.

"Hey!"

The strident voice of a young girl rings through the room, snapping her out of her daze.

"Aren't you going to join us, Eleanor?" Orca enquires, "It's so _very_ boring playing pool with only two people. Dargoth isn't the chattiest gentleman, see."

Eleanor looks over to the other end of the table, where Dargoth gave a _very_ vexed glare to the other general. She smirks, as she pulls her chair back, eyes laid upon the cue ball.

Perhaps, somehow, this would bring about some form of distraction.

"Bring it on."

'_I hope you're having fun in your little fantasy world, my dear._'

Eleanor narrows her eyes, taking one last glance at the green-haired child pulling himself up, walking out of the room with eyes as blank and hollow as those dolls he adores so much.

'_It's probably a whole lot better than the world we all have to live in._'

* * *

"Well, here we are, Casmilia!" he says cheerily, a grin plastered on his face, arms outstretched, "Notoriously dangerous Kerning City!"

With a hand in front of her quivering lip, she feels cars, buses and the occasional motorbike whizzing past, as she looks up to the skyscrapers creating shadows in front of the orangey-pink, ever-present sunset, with widened eyes.

"This is scary," Casmilia shivers involuntarily, "What do you find so _good_ about this place?"

"C'mon, Casmilia, it's a _great_ place," he looks around, "At any given moment, you've got, I dunno…"

He scans over the busy streets, where there were boys his age, or _younger_ even, lighting cigarettes whilst they lean against the graffiti-covered walls; people who were a little bit older looking around shiftily, holding something under ratty brown trench coats.

"There are probably a couple of guys doing heroine and drugs behind the wall there."

Andrew sets his sights on an old man with a scruffy, knotted beard blocking the sidewalk, holding a paper cup, and a makeshift sign with something along the lines of 'broke: change please' messily scrawled across in permanent marker.

"Andrew…"

It isn't a stunningly breathtaking sight, like the canopies and fairies Ellinia. It is not enchanting like the misty mountaintops of Perion. It didn't have that spark of energy like Nautilus Port did, nor did it have the homely charm of Henesys.

But Kerning City… It has _integrity_, yet also a degree of anonymity. It is the grittiest, most _realistic_ city in this dreaded, cursed world.

And, that, Andrew thinks, was what gives this town its notorious reputation; _this_ is what gave Kerning City its flair.

"Ah, I feel like I'm right at home," he hugs her closer, with a smile on his face as he extends his arm out, taking in the surroundings once again, "I was practically _born_ to be here, no?"

"Andrew, please…"

"Casmilia?"

Andrew stops dead, as a robust, tanned skin man, with a nicely kempt beard, glares at them with piercing black eyes.

"You are the knight who was sent here to help me, yes?"

* * *

"Well, girls…"

The familiarly shrill voice of the witch makes both of the girls wince, as Reina, wide-eyed, snaps around.

"Have you had _fun_ with your little bonding exercise?"

"Y-Yes," Reina looks straight ahead, now stiff as a board, not daring look into her condescending violet eyes, "It was rather enjoyable."

With a plastic smile adorning her lips, Eleanor turns to the magician, "And you, Cecelia?"

"Yeah, I had fun, I guess," she says, "How was pool with…? Um… Uh…"

"Orca," Eleanor finishes for her curtly, "It was fun. We had a _very_ close game…"

"I beat you _sooo_ bad, Eleanor!" the younger woman adjusts the bunny clips in her fair hair, sticking out her tongue.

"Or, maybe, I lost very badly to someone at least five years my junior," she flips her hair, rolling her eyes, "Alas, I _still had fun_. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"I _won_," she chimes in a sing-song voice, "and you _lost…_"

Eleanor whips around, teeth grinding together, her long, manicured nails piercing her skin, "If you don't _shut up_ about it, I'll cut your pay!" she stomps her foot for dramatic effect.

"You can't do _that_, Lady Eleanor," Orca smirks mockingly, "I got promoted last week. That means you can't boss me around anymore!"

"_Orchid_!"

"Haha!" she runs out of the room. Although her triumphant grin didn't say anything about it, Orca has an immense phobia of being incinerated, like many others who dared cross the path of the Black Witch_…_

Reina clears her throat, "Whatever do we do _now_, Eleanor?"

Eleanor pulls back her arm warmers, to take a glance at her silver wrist watch.

"My, oh, my… Won't you look at the time," she observes, with a frown, "Time flies by when you're having fun, yes?"

"Sure," Cecelia cuts in with a yawn.

"Lunch shall be soon, and I give you permission to roam the headquarters until then," Eleanor elaborates, shooting Cecelia a cautionary glare, "_Miss Cecelia._"

She claps haughtily, a smile once against adorning her lips.

"You are both dismissed," Eleanor says, in an almost sing-song voice, "I have no tasks or mission assigned to you from lunch until dinner, so the period between then is free time, as well."

As Eleanor swirls around, making her way to the door, Cecelia indignantly sticks her tongue out at the witch, to which Reina giggles.

"I'm gonna go take a nap, now, I need my beauty sleep," Cecelia pulls back her chair, stifling a yawn, "Seeya later."

'_I'm pretty sure you've only slept for a grand total of around six hours in the entire time you've been at this place…_' inner-Cecelia makes an appearance, once again.

"That's a generous estimate…" she grumbles to herself, as she walks out of the room, in hope that she won't get lost in the maze of stairwells and corridors.

"_No_, Cecelia, I don't think we have enough energy to even walk around and see the rest of this damned place," she reprimands herself.

_Pause_.

"What the hell, man! I might bump into a room full of dead bodies, or test subjects," Cecelia hollers, "It's very likely I'll bump into a gas chamber, I swear to God… I don't want to be scarred for life, you know."

The pauses grow longer, and the voices grow ever so slowly softer.

"I don't care about lunch. My eye bags are getting worse…"

The Black Witch's annoyingly familiar voice then cuts into her eardrums, "What are you doing to do on your break?"

Reina wordlessly turns to look over her shoulder, eyes filled with contempt.

"I will go out and get some fresh air."

"Ah, a wise choice," Eleanor moves back, "We should really install some air ventilation around these parts. It does get quite stuffy in the mine…"

"Indeed," Reina replies starkly, as she, with quick steps, walks out of the room.

As she walks out of the room, a triumphant smirk adorns her lips, the last thing to ring in her ears is the frantic shuffle of papers.

'_I've won._'

* * *

"Yes, she is Casmilia, the knight sent from Erev–"

"I didn't ask _you_, boy."

Andrew blinks, as he glances toward the younger girl instead,

"Speak, child. Are you Casmilia, knight-in-training of Ereve?"

Casmilia nods curtly, as she tries her best to wriggle out of his grasp.

"You don't look any stronger than a noblesse," he raises an eyebrow as her generic white and blue robes, trimmed with gold, along with a matching feathered hat.

Casmilia swore she could _hear_ her blood boiling.

"I suppose this is better than nothing," he sighs, letting her go, "So this will have to suffice, I'm afrai—"

"Just…"

She seethes, rubbing her temples,

"Assign me a mission."

Matthias raises his eyebrow.

"Any sort of mission," Casmilia pleads, "_Please_."

* * *

"For crying out loud!" she yells, voice echoing down the halls of the empty subway, its depths filled with spider webs and howling wraiths.

"Why did he…"

Out of frustration, the thunder breaker punches down an innocent little stirge that had the misfortune of brushing past her at that moment in time.

"Oh, Goddess," she pinches her nose, as she lifts the lid of one of the trash cans, "the rubbish here _stinks_ like you wouldn't believe…"

"What does the trash in Ereve smell like, then?" Andrew asks wryly, "Roses?"

"Well, quite frankly," she rummages through the garbage, one eye open, "Compared to this, _yes_…"

"Try _training_ in the sewers around these parts," Andrew shudders at the memory—the king slime never seemed to die…

Hurling the trash can lid down the abandoned tracks, she would have torn out her pretty ponytails—if not for the fact that she had washed her hair the night before, and her hands were covered with filth and Goddess-knows-what-else…

"It's not _here_, either!" she growls, "What's going on?"

Andrew crosses his arms, as he looks down the long line of trash cans lining the passageway.

'_Two down, fifteen to go…_' he sighs, leaning against the wall.

* * *

Eleanor flips through the form handed to her, a triumphant smirk should have been written across her sharp features.

'_Tch…'_

If all had gone according to plan, that is.

"I _knew_ you were too nifty for my little tricks," she scrunches the piece of paper in her hand, glaring with eyes full of rage at the intricate form filled out by the older teenager pinned upon the 'new members' board.

'_You stupid little…_' she scowls.

In all honesty, Eleanor doesn't care enough to know that Cecelia's last name was Yang, that she had a mother called Mallory, or that she was a student in magic—a student with a B+ average, at that.

What really _did_ matter was where _Reina_ came from; what _her_ last name was; who _her_ family was; what _she_ studied.

What her connections were.

But, no… Instead, she gets a blank paper with her name written atop the sheet, nothing but pure malice and mockery dripping off every single one of those six words imprinted upon the back of the leaflet.

'_I will never tell you anything._'


	15. Strange Girl

**Chapter 15: Strange Girl**

* * *

_Step, step…_

The light of the outside world—or, well, the outside of the Verne mine, whatever she deems more appealing—engulfs her, as she places a hand over her bangs to stop that cursed stinging in her eyes.

'… _Finally._'

With each brisk step she takes – well, as brisk as she can get, anyway, as she winces at the thought of someone witnessing her limp to the entrance of the mine—dragging bandaged leg behind her.

'_I am going outside to get some fresh air,_' she had told Le Tierre in that quiet voice of hers on the way out, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, '_I hear it will make me recover faster, after all._'

Lies. All lies. Maybe she should have packed first – but what was there to bring?

That crazy girl – Cecelia? Those terrible tasting rations from the kitchen? Some mesos, perhaps?

Reina shakes her head at the latter thought. No, certainly not; the Black Wings had only so much as cobwebs in their vault, surely.

_Step, step, step…_

No.

No, she had to run.

There is no other choice.

Reina didn't have the _time_ for such frivolities such as friends—ha!—or sustenance, or money. Not in the situation that she is in now.

"Agh!"

Pain, sharp like a knife, runs up her leg.

Even so, Reina decided it was best to assume that the rough terrain of the ground, what with rocks the size of golf balls scattered all over the floor, not to mention the dents in the ground, was what brought her to her knees.

The teenager pulls herself up and off the ground, patting down her lavender skirt.

'_Good,_' she inspects the damage, '_no blood, no scratches…_'

Just her leg wrapped in gauze, and flecks of dirt and dust.

Arm leaning against the edge of the entrance, she waits to catch her breath—how could she run, if she could hardly even walk?

She places her head in the crook of her arm, '_What else is there that I can possibly—_'

"A meso for them?"

They say that, when one is too shocked, they cannot even so much as scream—and, there, at that moment, no sound leaves Reina's parted lips, her jaw hanging from their hinges.

'_No, no, no…_'

Glancing to her side, lo and behold, in all his childish glory, is none other than the _Genius Puppeteer_, propped up against the beige stone wall of the hideout, knees brought to his chest.

_Run_ is what her mind screams at her.

"What?"

_Stay_ is exactly what she does.

"A meso for your thoughts?"

She feels it at her fingertips, pumping through her veins, it causes her eyes to widen, as her breath hitches in her throat, "What does _that_ mean?"

The little boy shrugs.

"I don't know," he admits, "Eleanor says it to Baroq a lot. Something about it being an 'idiom' she used in her childhood."

Francis laughs, "Whatever the heck that's supposed to mean, anyway."

Reina laughs along with him—nervous, contrived.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?"

"What are _you_ doing out here?" is what she returns, face returning to a deadpan.

Francis narrows his eyes, as though in heavy contemplation.

Should he tell her?

'_Should I not?_'

She seemed to be nice – if not a little bit crazy, like the rest of them; the ones driven with endless power to have gotten here in the first place.

Trustworthy? Perhaps so. Until he finds out for sure, however, "That, _strange girl_, is none of your business."

Reina picks herself up and off the ground, the torn hem of her dress swishing against her legs as she furrows her brow in confusion.

"_Strange_ girl?"

"Cecelia's crazy," he explains, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world—not that it wasn't, "And you probably are, too, if you got paired with her."

Reina blinks in response, "Th-That isn't very nice to say…"

"Everyone in this organization is crazy," he continues, "Because they're powerful. That's why you're here, right?"

Reina bites her lip.

"But Cecelia's already the crazy girl," he drawls, "So I'll say that you're the weird one. Strange girl."

It rolled off his tongue so seamlessly , those words fit her like a glove.

"Strange girl…" he repeats.

Although it seemed to be an impossible feat, she scrunches her brow further.

"_You_ are the strange child," she intones, "And my name is _Reina_. Not '_strange girl_'."

Snapped out of his thoughts, he flashes a mischievous grin, which she can tell is fake, because nobody ever smiles that wide, but she takes it in, nonetheless.

"Nice to meet you—uh, Reina," he tilts his head to the side.

If not for the height difference between them, what with him crouching on the floor, he would have held out his hand to shake out of obligation—like _she_ had taught him.

His eyes darken at the thought of it, though his voice is eerily still cheery and peppy as ever, "I'll still call you strange girl, though."

Reina blinks in response to this, as he clears his throat.

"My name's Francis."

"N-Nice to meet you, Francis."

She swirls around once more, determination now lacing what was once her soft voice, "I must leave now."

Her speech is stunted, stilted.

"To go on a walk."

'_Yes,_' she breathes, '_Yes, a walk._'

Stilted. That's what her voice always is.

"It was nice talking to you."

He huffs in response, '_Liar, liar…_'

"Ha."

The harshness of his tone, the mirthless laughter that escapes her lips – she can't help but grimace.

"Surely, Eleanor wasn't so stupid as to let _you_ outside."

Reina sighs, as she mutters icily.

"You'd be surprised."

* * *

"Found a new replacement so _soon_?" the green-haired woman inquires, her too-large bow still in hand.

Once again, the strategist adjusts his monocle.

"Why, yes, Irena," Neinheart replies, shuffling through bits of paperwork, "We have replacements for every single one of the chief knights, should one of them either perish or leave the organization."

"Oh?" Irena hums half-heartedly, raising an elegant eyebrow.

The chief wind archer uses all of her strength to fight the urge to bury her face in the middle of her palm – why does she even _bother_?

"If such an unfortunate event happens so that the replacement either perishes or leaves the organization, the third in line will come forward," Neinheart continues, "When the third is gone, there's a fourth in line…"

Irena finds herself trying to stifle a yawn, '_A _'yes' _would have sufficed…_'

Neinheart finds himself trailing off once more.

"… And it continues until every single last Cygnus Knight, even the training knights, is utilized according to their rank. Do you understand now?"

Irena blinks in response.

"That's…" he adjusts his monocle, "That's a yes, right?"

"Sure," she replies coolly.

Still unable to wrap her head around the tactician's extensive explanation, she awkwardly clears her throat.

"Shall we go and meet up with the new chief night walker, then?" she offers, "She seems to have just arrived from Victoria Island."

"Oh!"

The bundle of items—scrolls, tomes, and quills alike—clattering to the floor makes them both cringe.

"Neinheart?"

"Oh, my," he laughs, a grin etched into his face, "I seem to have forgotten she would arrive today, didn't I?"

"Didn't she say that she would arrive as quickly as possible?"

"Yes."

Bundling the heap of scattered objects into his arms, he wipes the sweat off his brow – and the nervous smile off his face – before getting up to pat the dust out of his robes.

"Yes," he sighs, "Yes, she did—"

Neinheart freezes at the sound of a certain voice, as it rings through the Erevian forests – loud, clear and distinct.

"Huh?" he furrows his brow, as he peers into the distance.

"Hello!"

* * *

"Hello!" the unusually cheerful voice of a certain red-head cries out, "My name's Oz."

She holds out her hand, a grin still plastered on her face.

"It's nice to meet you."

Simply blinking those hazel eyes bore into lime green ones, the night walker finds herself blinking in incredulity.

So formal. So _fake_. _This_ is her? This is the one he obsessed over so much?

Instinctively, her nose wrinkles in what cannot be mistaken for anything other than disgust – or simple disdain.

"So _you're_ Oz."

Oz tilts her head to the side, in all her childish glory.

"What?"

Most of the upper-ranked knights were referred to as either 'chief', 'Thunder Breaker', 'Blaze Wizard', or 'Night Walker'.

Never 'Hawkeye', or 'Oz', or 'Eckhart'.

She blinks.

"How do you know my real name?"

The night walker then crosses her arms, "Eckhart," is her reply.

In an instant – the blink of an eye, almost—the fake (oh-so-_fake_) the smile is wiped off her face. Caspeona swore she could see a couple of tears prickling in her eyes.

"Feh," she huffs, "He'd be surprised if I _didn't_ know your name."

Oz brings a hand to her face, eyes wide as she finds herself beginning to shiver. The night walker finds herself raising an eyebrow.

Who is she, to be commanding over a legion of people – hundreds of thousands, _millions_ –and break down _crying_ upon the mention of a _name_?

"Oz!"

The white-haired girl whips around, as she sights it in the distance, tattered brown cape billowing out as he sprints through the gardens, stepping over the dewy grasses.

Finally, he comes to a halt, placing his hands over his knees for some form of support.

"Oz, h-hey!" he puffs.

She brings a hand to her quivering lip, her stuttering muffled.

"H-Hawkeye?"

"Oz," he repeats, "I just wanted to let you know that the new night walker is arriving soon, and she should—wait…"

He furrows his brow, as he scratches the back of his head.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

He leans to the side, peering over her shoulder to sight a very strange-looking girl; skin white as paper, eyes as sharp as her teeth.

"And who's _that_?"

Caspeona emerges from behind the blaze wizard, giving a small wave, and a smile—it is fake, because nobody squints their eyes _that_ much when they smile.

"The new night walker," she introduces herself with a small mockery of a bow.

Hawkeye blinks.

"Uh…"

"It's fine, Hawkeye," Oz wipes the corner of her eye with her wrist, "It really is."

"O-Okay, then," Hawkeye laughs nervously, "Whatever you say, Oz."

"She's crying, you jackass."

The three knights whip around at the sound of her voice – however velvety her voice was, Hawkeye couldn't help but wince at the harsh edge to her words.

"I-Irena?" Oz stammers.

"Let's get this sorted out," Irena narrows her cold, calculating eyes, "Were you the one who made Oz cry?"

She turns to her younger colleague,

"Hawkeye?"

"For crying out loud, I just got here…"

Caspeona, in the meanwhile, holds in sadistic laughter.

'_Oh, man,_' she smirks, '_It's only been two minutes and I've already caused drama…_'

"Trust me, darling," she sneers, "I can do a lot more than that."

Irena finds her lips pressed into a firm line.

Caspeona reveals those grotesquely deformed fangs of hers with a smarmy smile spreading across her thin lips.

"So it was _you_," Irena says coolly, "What happened, exactly?"

"I didn't do anything," Caspeona says in all seriousness, though her toothy grin and sharp laughter said otherwise, "I promise you."

An arrow whizzes past her shoulder with lightning-quick speed, taking with it a few strands of her hair.

"Don't say another word," she hisses.

"Ha-ha-ha…"

'_God, they're so defensive around these parts…_' Caspeona crosses her arms, bemusement washing over her, as she laughs in sadistic ecstasy,

"Do your _worst_, Wind Archer."

Swirling blue light surrounds her, teeth grinding together as she mutters 'soul arrow', 'bow booster' and 'wind walk'…

"Oh, I'll show you _my worst_."

Oz lunges forward, grabbing her friend by the shoulder with lime-green eyes widened.

"P-Please, Irena!"

The chief knight of wind inadvertently elbows her best friend in the ribs, as she pulls her hand back, the buzz of mana fizzling through the field, as an ominous wind sweeps past them.

"Please _stop!_"

Caspeona's lip twitches downwards ever so slightly, clenching her gloved fists – as though it would protect her from her inevitable demise…

'_Oh, shit…_'

"_Stra—_"

"Stop this nonsense!"

In the blink of an eye, the winds whipping past them seem to have vanished.

All four of the chief knights turn around to take a look at the strategist—whether it was the fact that he had (finally) lost his cool, or whether he actually stepped in to split up seemingly 'petty' drama… The knights did not know whether to be shocked or amazed.

"We need to _welcome_ the new chief knight walker," he grumbles, "Not purge her existence upon her arrival in Ereve!"

Irena storms up to him, jaw tightened, hand threatening to lunge out and grab the man by the collar for fear of either being fired, or having her pay cut.

"She hasn't been here for more than five minutes, and, for the love of Goddess," Irena sighs, "She's _already_ made Oz cry."

Caspeona rolls her eyes.

"I can hear you, y'know," she interjects, "And, as I said, I didn't do anything. We just talked."

"I don't _care_!" the green-haired woman shoots back.

Caspeona throws her arms up in defeat.

"Suit yourself, then!"

"Caspeona, I am _trying_ to defend you," Neinheart rubs his temples, "At least _try_ to make the job easier for me."

"Don't even try, Neinheart. It's not worth it."

With a small sigh, the older man opts to simply ignore her.

Irena leans in closer, _closer_, until her lips are next to his ear, her voice lowered to a hushed whisper.

"Who chose _her_ to take his place?" she hisses.

Neinheart, face still stoical, lets out a sigh—he readjusts his monocle, which seems to have slipped down throughout the course of his little rampage.

"Eckhart," he whispers, "He's the one that picked her so long ago."

"Are you _serious_?" she huffs indignantly, "I sense bad things about this girl. Furthermore, I do not think I, or the rest of the knights, will work well with her, either."

"You may all be working with her for many years to come, Irena," Neinheart blinks, "I'm afraid you'll have to co-operate with her until another arrangement is made. This is only temporary, unless we deem her suitable to fill in his job permanently."

"This is _madne_ss—"

Caspeona taps one foot impatiently on the grass:

"So, Neinheart," she interjects, "What is my first duty as the Chief Night Walker of Ereve?"

Irena finally pulls away, eyes narrowed menacingly.

"If anything bad happens," she hisses at him, before beginning to walk away, "Don't tell me that I never warned you."

Taking no heed, Neinheart beckons Caspeona forward, expression still unyielding.

"Come with me."

* * *

"… Are you serious?"

"Well, this is—almost—the first thing you do when you get enrolled into the academy… Just… Just think of it that way, won't you?"

Clawed nails, sharp like talons, threatened to tear through the velvet curtain behind her.

"I'm not a _schoolgirl_!" she growls, as measuring tape is bound around her waist, "Why are you making me do this?"

Neinheart simply sighs, as he leans against the wall, glancing up to the ceiling.

"The first thing you must do, when you are promoted to such a position, Caspeona," he points out dryly from in front of the stall, "Is get your uniform tailored. One cannot perform any formal duties without their uniform."

Caspeona rolls her eyes, "Isn't my old outfit just fine?" she inquires, "I want my own _unique_ style, you see."

Neinheart, in the meanwhile, sighs exasperatedly, crossing his arms.

"Your style is not _unique_, by any means, Lady Caspeona," he points out harshly, "A lavender china set, pink adventurer cape, countless rings and a silver identity is what most other night walkers adorn. You want to _stand out_, to wear something to signify your new-found leadership."

She mentally cringes at the thought of Eckhart's outfit.

heavy fur-lined cloak that appeared to weigh him down to no end – as a matter of fact, he had to take it off during missions – and all those belts that were strapped around his body, even around his arms and legs.

… Not to mention the tight leather pants.

_Tight leather pants_.

Caspeona shudders.

'_Fuck's sake…_'

"Can't I wear something a little bit more…" she pleads, still shivering at the thought, "_Comfortable_?"

A sigh sounds from the blue-haired man, "We don't have any other choice. This is your uniform – and you must wear it with pride for the remainder of your service to Cygnus."

Caspeona's eye twitches involuntarily.

_Tight._

_Leather._

_Pants._

"How the hell did he sit down?"

"With great difficulty."

Caspeona groans, she burying her face in the middle of her palm. Whether she should laugh in masochistic mirth, or cry her heart out, she is yet to decide.

A dress, or a skirt—the horror!—would have been a lot better than _these_ pants. Really,_ anything else_ would have sufficed.

They hardly looked flattering on Eckhart, and even so much as saying _that_ is a complete understatement…

What difference would it make if _she_ wears it?

Turning her head away from where the strategist was standing—not that she could see him regardless—she mumbles, explaining her little predicament in the bluntest way possible, "I do not wish to be associated with the previous night walker of Ereve."

Once again, a sigh escapes his lips.

"I apologize, Caspeona."

"I don't need your _stupid_ apologies," she hisses.

Stone-faced, Neinheart simply blinks.

* * *

"... _I don't need your sympathy."_

* * *

Neinheart shakes the memory from his head.

"I shall go and attend to the other knights, for now, Caspeona," he turns around, ponytail nearly brushing against his thighs, "Be sure to consult with me when you're ready. Your uniform should be ready in a couple of days or so."

"Tch," she bares her monstrous teeth at him.

* * *

"She never lets the trainees outside," he frowns, "Much less the ones who didn't, er… Volunteer."

He throws his arms in the air as a blithe gesture."

To be a part of all this, that is."

Reina doesn't even move.

"I didn't quite _volunteer_, either," Francis continues, "_Mais,_ _c'est la vie_. That's life."

Reina doesn't even blink, her heart had practically jumped up to her throat, slowly squeezing the air out of her.

"That's how it all works," he says, "Nobody gets exactly what they want."

If he, one who is loyal to Eleanor, knows her motives, then, surely, she will report back to her… The fair-haired girl shakes her head. She shouldn't have been so stupid as to have done something like _that_.

'_I will never tell you anything_'?

What pointlessness, to be fighting against the greater evil—or, depending on how one viewed it, greater _good_—for something that was long gone; fighting for the past, at the expense of something so precious as her future.

'_I have no future,_' is her maxim, '_I have no past._'

Should she stay where she is, still speaking to this strange child, she will _wish_ she was dead.

Her throat becomes dry.

'_Run, run, run!_'

Alas, curiosity seizes her, and, so it seemed, blinded her, as she asks, "Why do _you_ fight, if you wish to not be here?"

His grin falters ever so slightly – still present, however weak it is.

"We are all here, because we were all given a promise."

"Of what?" Reina urges.

"Of _what_?" he mirrors; it isn't a question, but a mockery.

"Why do _you_ fight?" she questions, "What were _you_ promised?"

He lowers his gaze—whether he has no answer, or simply doesn't care enough to want to say something like that to her (or anyone, for that fact), she doesn't know.

And still, the blonde continues, "Do you honestly think that The Black Mage will offer you most everything you wish for; all your hopes and dreams you are giving up to fight for…"

'_For this madness._'

She pauses. What else is she to say to this boy? Does he even know any better?

The Cygnus Knights, the Resistance, the Black Wings; the feud, the fights, the justice (or lack thereof)…

Madness.

All madness.

Suddenly, the oh-so triumphant, oh-so childish grin is wiped off his face. Though she cannot see his eyes, from the way his lips were turned downward ever so slightly, nose wrinkled in disdain…

He doesn't even need to utter a word.

"It is pointless trying to escape," he says, nevertheless, "Because you'll only end up getting caught."

The words seem to physically bite into her.

"You'll be killed, Reina," he intones darkly, the sharpness of his tone only serving to hurt her further—is that the purpose of her words?

No, it is only the truth. If there was even so much as one thing she had learned in her fifteen years, it is that the truth is what hurts the most. Her jaw tightens, as she clenches her fists.

"It is pointless trying to stay," she mutters, "For I will _wish_ I was dead."

* * *

_With limp heels sluggishly being dragged along the floor, Francis swore there was a faint trail of dried blood crusting her lip, his eyes widening at the sight…_

"_Francis, m'dear."_

_Clack, clack, her steps are slower, more forceful, now, as she manages a smile, full of sadistic mirth._

"_Are you OK?"_

_The pale girl's arms are above her head, as the older woman tugs at her wrists._

"_You look rather surprised. Did something happen?"_

_He shakes his head, tresses of green hair tickling his cheeks as he does so._

"_I-I'm fine…"_

* * *

He cups his face in his hands, leaning his elbows against his propped up knees.

"Is Eleanor so angry at you?" he asks, though he knows the answer.

If he focuses hard enough, he can hear Eleanor—even _see_ Eleanor—thrashing about, as she throws papers cross the desks, smashing potion bottles, yelling and kicking and screaming…

'_I have failed!_' is what she would bellow.

Francis suppresses a wince at the thought of it.

She shuts her eyes, heaving in a heavy sigh.

Though he knows the answer, she shall answer anyway.

"No."

If she listens hard enough—strain her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut—then she can hear the slash of a weapon against skin, drawing blood, and the faint buzz of deadly magic crackling afterward.

And she can see, she can almost _feel_ the rage.

They are flames, like candlelight, flickering in her eyes violet eyes, bursting at the tips of her manicured fingers, erupting into an inferno.

Though thoughts swirl through her mind like a chaotic whirlwind, she cannot hold her tongue as these thoughts—however arbitrary—spill out of her mouth, voice quivering even more so than usual with fear, endless fear.

"No, she is beyond furious."

This time, she is sure to die.

Even so, at this revelation, she can still smile and revel in what little glory she had managed to attain.

"And I don't care."

The puppeteer raises an eyebrow at her expression, at her words. A strange girl, indeed.

"You _don't care_?" he blinks, "Not at all?"

Staring into the distance, an aloof smile plays on her lips. She needn't utter a word.

"Not even a little bit?" he urges.

"Because this is madness," she intones, "All madness – madness that I wish to not take any part in."

"And you're running away from the _Black Wings_?"

His tone is that of curiosity. Perceptual, not scrutinizing, not judgemental. To this, she nods.

"And I shall run."

"You'll run?" he blinks, "Run _where_?"

"Far, far away. Away from the Resistance, away from the Black Wings; away from the Cygnus Knights, away from anything and everything."

She turns around, facing her back to him as she says to no-one in particular, her whisper carried away by the wind.

"I wish to get away from it all, that's all I ask."

A wretched grin stretches across her features, as she glances up into the sky.

'_Get away from it all…_'

"And I will help you."

He says it so flippantly, like he was announcing that he was to go out for a walk, or

So flippantly, that it was almost as if he didn't understand the weight of this promise.

… _Almost_.

"What?"

"If you were _crazy girl_," he snickers at the new title the ebony-haired magician now held, "Then I'd gladly let you leave."

He says this with a blank expression written on his features, now.

"Crazy girl could go and die in a burning hole, for all I care," he shudders, "She's just crazy. Crazy, crazy, _crazy_… Like everyone else I know."

* * *

_Her piercing laughter rings shrill through the house—their place of residence (for lack of better word) could hardly be called a _home_._

"_Why, my child?"_

_The woman drawls in a foreign tongue; though he does not understand, the mockery – the malice – in her tone said more than the boy ever cared enough to hear._

"_I wonder, I worry," she cries, "I wonder why you only have those dolls – only those silly puppets without eyes."_

_Blinking away tears, the boy says mournfully,_

"_They are my friends, mama."_

_She stumbles forward, crouching down to see him at eye-level; the pungent smell of her putrid breath – it is a scent that he had soon begun to associate with her and no-one else, for no-one else had this smell on their tongue day after day, night after night._

_There is a faint lingering sweetness, of the past—of what was and what could have been—now gone, washed away by the waves of sloshing red liquid._

_It is the smell of sadness._

_Wrinkling his nose at the stench, he cannot pull away, for she cups both his cheeks in bony, cold fingers, boring her chocolate brown eyes—widened, maddened—into his innocent hazel ones._

"_Why do you care for them so?" she whispers, "They do not have eyes to see your sadness, to cry with you… They do not even have mouths to speak!"_

_A tear slides down his cheek, as he hugs the wooden carcass of a doll closer to his chest._

_While he does not answer, she pulls back with a stringent smirk, the half-empty dark green bottle with that crimson liquid swishing around inside attached to her as though it were her third hand._

"_Why, my child," she mutters under her breath, "Why…"_

* * *

Crazy.

"… Like everyone else I ever cared about."

Noticing the darkness in his tone, Reina looks at him with eyes softened with sympathy, "Francis…"

"But you're not _crazy_," he interjects, "You're just weird. We need more _weird_ people – not crazy people – in this world of ours."

Oh, the irony in his words.

People, from many years ago, complained that this world is too normal, too stagnant.

And so, wielding bows and arrows, swords and staves, daggers and throwing stars, most every child above the age of ten set out on an adventure.

And so, adventuring became the normality—thus were born 'adventurers', or, for those that preferred it, 'explorers'.

Then came the Order of Cygnus, the Dual Bladers, the Resistance; the Black Wings…

Each one came into or re-entered with a spark, a flair of popularity—each one ended up as any other; normal, normal, normal.

Bland. And still, everyone complained that the world was too normal.

And there are those that try to change that—the victims of social stigmatism who wanted to stand out, to _shine_.

The _outcasts_.

They were the _weird_ people.

"I don't want you to die," he confesses.

Clenching his fist, as he huddles the doll closer to him, '_I don't want _anyone_ to die anymore,_' are the words that remain unspoken.

_Screeeech…_

"_Hello and good afternoon everyone,_" the high-pitched voice of a certain general rings through the loudspeakers, followed by a giggle, "_We would just like to let you all know that lunch has been prepared in the dining hall. Please make your way down to the dining halls as soon as possible! Thank you._"

Another screech, a muttering of '_wait, how do you turn this off again?_' followed by a short '_shut up, I know it's been years—_' in the background, before it cuts off to complete silence.

With a wistful sigh, Reina stretches her arms out, as though basking in the sun – which was, surprisingly, still shining in spite of the cold weather.

"I guess this is goodbye, then," is what she says, glancing over her shoulder, "Isn't it?"

Francis glances meaningfully in her direction, his eyes glowering with menace – and, to her dismay, with that dark aura of his.

Try as she may, she runs—Reina runs as far as her injured legs can take her.

_Plick._

"No."

"What?"

She feels tears prickle in her eyes, like the all-too-familiar pin-like prickles of strings entering her skin stab painfully into her.

Screeching, she clenches her fists, "_What?_"

_Plick-plick._

"No, Reina."

The puppeteer narrows his eyes, as he draws back his hand—to which Reina grimaces indignantly.

"_No?_" she snarls.

"No," he counters, "this isn't goodbye."

He stands up, the edges of his robes swishing at his ankles.

'_Not yet, it isn't._'


	16. Stasis

**Chapter 16**

The petite girl holds back sobs, as she is dragged behind the puppeteer by golden strings of mana, ''_I-I'm crying again, aren't I?_'

"You said you will help me!"

While she would have wiped away these stupid—_stupid!_—tears away, her hands are bound behind her back for whatever reason.

Francis glances behind him. Good, she only looks sad, not quite angry. Not _yet_, anyway. Even then, she won't have the strength to hit him hard enough—or would she?

"Yes?" he says as coolly as possible.

"You said that you would help me get _out_ of here!" she shrieks hoarsely, tears streaming down her face. She feels anger—the self-loathing kind—bubble inside of her.

'_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_'

Whatever happened to '_never showing weakness_'?

Whatever happened to being strong enough to move on from times like this?

'_Stop crying!_'

"We will get to that eventually," he says blithely, "But first, we must eat lunch."

"I don't _care_ about lunch!"

Francis whips around, a scowl sharpening his glowering golden gaze, as he promptly clamps his hand over her mouth.

"Mmph!" she struggles against his grip—how pathetic, to be heckled by a lanky ten year old boy…

"_Quiet!_" he brings his voice down to a hiss, "I said we'd discuss how we'd go about it later—**argh**!"

A dribble of blood stretches out from Reina's lips, as she growls menacingly—admittedly, Francis, with widened eyes, could easily say that she looks like a feral animal.

He clutches helplessly at his index finger, blood still dribbling from it, as the strings fizzle out.

"O-Ow… Ow… _Ow…_"

Reina spits out the vile, rust-coloured liquid, as she lets her hands fall to her sides.

"I have not any time, Francis!" she explains bleakly, clenching her fists, "Eleanor will surely kill me!"

Eyes widened from the shock of pain, he presses against the wound,

'_Owowowow…_'

Though, still, with a grimace, he continues.

"Stop it."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Eleanor _won't_ kill you."

He says this so surely—with such resolution and conviction that Reina almost thought it was true. Almost.

"I'll make sure of that!"

"The Black Witch _hates_ me!" she barks back, "I'm not even here as a proper Black Wings member! I am not even valued as such!"

He lets out a sigh, as he presses against his surprisingly profusely bleeding wound. What could he say to get her to _understand_?

'_People are simply too stupid to understand,_' is the conclusion he had come to such a long time ago.

Alas, he tries to reason—however irrational this girl is, he has to get his plan through her thick skull, "The Black Witch doesn't hate _me_."

Reina frowns at his imitation. Is this meant to be convincing? Is it not a mockery of her situation?

"I'm a proper Black Wings member, and _I_ am valued as such."

Reina's brow furrows deeper.

"Perhaps more than _just_ a Black Wings member—do you see where I'm going with this, Reina?"

"I-I think so…"

With a chaste grin on his face, he declares, "I will make up a plan," he holds his hand up in triumph, "and, _trust me_, it _will_ work."

Reina lowers her gaze.

"Hey."

He tilts her head up for her to meet him at eye level.

"Hey, don't be doubtful. I have never had a plan that hasn't failed."

"The meat sauce didn't work out too well for you, now," Reina larks, "Did it?"

Francis narrows his eyes.

"I am the _genius puppeteer_," he states so arbitrarily, like it is the most obvious thing in the world, "and I, as a _genius_, will help you out of this mess you've managed to get yourself into."

Still unconvinced, Francis proceeds to drag Reina down the corridor once more.

"We'll talk this over at lunch," he mutters, checking to see if she was still behind him, and not bolting down the corridor to her imminent death.

As though on cue, his stomach lets out a loud rumble.

"I can't strategize when I'm hungry," he grumbles.

* * *

Grumbling irately to herself, her arms—coated from the elbow down with a strange-smelling blue, gel-like substance—rests ten of those ill-famed bubbling dolls.

"Are you _sure_ that's enough, Casmilia?" Andrew inquires, "I mean, for all we know, there could be hundreds of dolls… Who says that one of those ten are the real deal–"

"We've got _plenty_, Andrew," she says sharply, eyes dulled, "_More_ than enough."

Raising an eyebrow, he stretches his arms. Needless to say, killing over fifty bubblings was a breeze, for him. Not that Casmilia, the one who literally had to dig into the bubblings with thunder-infused fists to kill the monsters could say much of the same.

"I _hate_ this!" she growls, stomping upon the moist, leaf-covered ground, throwing the dolls to the ground, "This is stupid!"

"I've gathered _that_ much," Andrew says dryly, bending over to pick up the dolls. They have an odd expression written on their faces, that's for sure.

They're smiling, and yet…

It seems so strange, plastic.

So_ fake_.

"C'mon, let's get these to Mr. Pickall," Andrew urges, as Casmilia shakes her head to herself, face buried in her hands rather melodramatically.

Sighing, he drags her by the collar along the soggy ground, hoping she was, at least, wearing shorts, so that she won't beat him into next week when a part of her robes ripped off…

'_Casmilia, you…_' he grunts.

* * *

The now-exiled chief knight wanders the streets of a city he _thought_ he had known – the concrete jungle that he once knew every turn and corner of seems to have escaped his memory.

"Lana?"

There was a comic book store in place of where they used to eat ramen, that run-down building that used to be a small theatre…

In some cases, the buildings were just gone altogether, and, in their place, were several apartment complexes, or skyscrapers.

Kerning City was no longer the colossal construction site he had grown to know and love over so many years. Now, thugs roamed the streets, peddlers made it hard to walk the sidewalks, and—no, he didn't dare look down that alleyway…

Eckhart, with his hands in his pockets, lets out a sigh as he gazes up into the sky.

The sky.

The one thing that hadn't changed, he realized, was the _sky_ – eternally washed with deep pinks, oranges, yellow, even hints of light purple and green…

The sky, he realizes, was the only indicator that this city—no, this pathetic_, _poor excuse of whatever it is to be called—was once his home.

Of course, Eckhart was a man who had accustomed to change, from a very early age, even if he does say so himself. Perhaps his years wasted in that _prison—_for lack of nicer description, because there simply _wasn't_ one—had deteriorated his adaptive skills…

Looking around once more, in desperation, and in denial, he lets out a sigh, as he remembers.

That little old lady who used to sell dango in that ratty stall of hers who was notorious for giving children acute gastritis, among other things he doesn't care enough to remember; the man who used to sell pirated videos and other gadgets that broke within two days; the construction workers who always seemed to be on a perpetual lunch break.

He remembers the people.

"The city isn't the only thing that hasn't changed, has it?"

Where are they?

_Where?_

'_Where have they all gone?_' he muses quietly to himself.

Away with the rest of the rest of the town—that somehow managed to get demolished, it seems.

Dead.

* * *

_Slowly, the assassin glances behind him, raggedy cape swishing at his ankles, as he raises an inquisitive eyebrow._

"_Eckhart, Eckhart, please!"_

_She huffs and puffs, hunched over, hand placed over her knees in feeble attempt to steady herself._

"_S-Stop…" she pants, "Wait…"_

* * *

… Gone.

Shaking the thought out of his head, he pulls away his mask ever so slightly.

"Lana!" he calls out, voice no longer muffled.

* * *

"_What is it?" Eckhart says coolly, hands buried in his pockets._

"_Your father," his teacher breathes, "He wanted to give you something before you left."_

"_Catch your breath first, Lana."_

"_Sh-Shut up…" she holds back a laugh, "I flash-jumped all th-the way through… urgh… Kerning City… And the forest… And through Ellinia, nearly bumped into a tree and a flock of fairies… And an old lady holding a bunch of dango sticks…"_

Huff, puff_—the woman looks as though she is ready to collapse._

"… _Just to deliver it to you…"_

* * *

Eckhart peers around the corner, eyes scourging the quiet stores and small restaurants for any sign of life, and, particularly, any sign of _her_, or anything to prove that she is still there, still alive.

* * *

_This statement serves to furrow his brow further,_ "_Deliver what, exactly?"_

"_Something very precious, he said. He wanted to give it to you for your sixteenth birthday, but…"_

_She sorts through her small pouch, tongue sticking out in concentration as she frowns, muttering something along the lines of 'I hope it isn't broken' and 'Oh, Goddess, where did it go…'_

_He leans forward in anticipation, scrutinisingly cold brown eyes narrowed at her._

"_Deliver _what_?" the young Eckhart repeats._

_Lana pulls it out of her bag in response, a triumphant grin spreading across her gentle features as his jaw hangs from its hinges._

"_F-Father…"_

_"Yes, Eckhart," Lana says, "From your father."_

* * *

As he pulls the mask further away from his face, he finally takes it upon himself to examine its features— the exquisite golden trimming, the finely painted black and white chipped over the years…

A coldness sweeps over him, as he tries—oh, how he tries—to recover the fragments of what was.

'_Maybe it's the wind._'

The rustle of dying trees, with their leaves growing yellow on the edges, is what greets him—indeed, maybe it _is_ the wind.

* * *

_He holds his hands out in front of him, a grimace forming at his lips as he shakes his head._

"_I cannot take this."_

_Blithely, she flicks it onto the ship._

"_Shi—"_

_To his chagrin, he nearly drops it onto the deck where it would have inevitably shattered into many small fragments; unrecoverable, for the value of this mask was priceless._

"_Don't swear in my presence, boy."_

'_Father, mother…_'

* * *

Like frayed images, the memories of them smiling flicker through his mind like an old-fashioned movie, as he shakes his head.

Alas, there is only one thing that he remembers so vividly—her forest-green eyes, chocolate brown shoulder-length hair, the way she laughs and smiles…

He hollers her name so desperately, "_Lana!_"

* * *

_Ignoring the chastising words of his master, for the first time in at least a decade, he peers closely at the mask, running his fingers over the bumpy surface._

'_Don't touch the mask,' his father had always told him, 'It is your mother's. She would not have allowed you to touch it. It is precious. Don't touch it. Don't, don't, __**don't**__.'_

_As timeworn as it was, and still _is_, it was a piece of beauty, this mask – the golden trimming, even after so many years, had remained unchipped, only so much as a few miniscule scratches on the porcelain…_

_It was so obvious, that this mask had seen many years, and even more wars and battles._

'Many deaths,_' Eckhart wishes to add with a wistful smile, as he runs his finger over the small blotches of faded maroon._

_Yes—there was a reason why father had never, ever, ever let him touch this mask._

_Not until now._

_Not until this day._

_Finally, he places it over his face with new-found confidence._

"_Tell father that I'll give it back some day."_

**_Honk!_**

_That dreaded sound – the honk of the air ship as it is about to take off from the dock –_

"_As much as I'd like to sit around and chat for the next couple of hours," she remarks dryly, "I have to say goodbye, don't I?"_

_Eckhart smiles wistfully in response._

"_I'll miss you, kid," Lana smiles, nostalgic smile lacing her features, "You know that?"_

_Eckhart returns the smile,_ "_You too."_

* * *

Maybe she was still here.

Maybe she was still waiting for him.

Just like she promised…

'_Lana, where are you?_'

As the last thing that meets his ears is not but a gush of wind (and the last thing to meet his eyes was a ghost town), the thief flags down a white cab passing by the desolate street – in almost an instant, the vehicle comes to a screeching halt.

'_If you're going to hide from me…'_

* * *

_Eckhart swirls around on his heel._

"_Hang on."_

_She smirks, as she wraps her hands around his wrist._

"_Just one last thing before the ship takes off."_

_As she begins to hold him tighter, he is glad to be wearing a mask, though, at the same time, it only served to make his face heat up more._

"_Wh-What is it?" he stammers, hoping she wouldn't notice his palms going sweaty as she pulls away the mask ever so slightly, "I don't want to be pulled off the side of the ship—"_

* * *

He pulls open the door, clambering into the small white car.

'… _Then that's fine with me.'_

He folds his hands together, gazing out the window as the streets he just trudged through flash before his eyes.

'_I have other ends to meet, after all._'

* * *

_The remainder of his words couldn't find their way out of his mouth._

"_I-I…"_

**_Honk!_**

_As she pulls away, she laughs at what would have been his dumbfounded expression. Once again, Eckhart is now glad to be wearing a mask, after she had planted a chaste kiss on his cheek._

"_Don't take it that way, squirt," she gives that all-mighty mischievous grin, "You're way too young for me."_

_Lana pats his shoulder, before she steps back._

"_Make us proud, Eckhart."_

**_Honk! Honk!_**

_The boy didn't even have the time to even so much as mutter a 'thank you' before he was whisked away into the clouds._

"_I'll be waiting for you, Eckhart."_

* * *

_Drip._

_Drop._

_Bubble._

_Drip._

The burly man absent-mindedly stands in front of the counter, as he watches the coffee drop slowly through the filter.

_Drip._

_Drop._

_Drip._

_Bubble._

"You're not eating lunch either?"

Baroq turns around at the sound of her voice, as he sights her sprawled out on the velvet couch, swirling crimson red liquid in her glass.

"Why are you even _drinking_ that stuff?" she raises the glass to her lips, leaving a purple lipstick stain, "and in the afternoon, no less."

A wine bottle sits on the coffee table, some of the sickly sweet liquid having managed to dribble onto the table in her haste.

"Lady Eleanor," he gives a mock sneer, turning back to fetch a mug from the wire rack.

Eleanor rolls her eyes.

"Lord Baroq," she pulls the cup away from her lips.

"Goddess, I feel so old."

"_Please_ don't call me that," she begs, "It makes _me_ feel old, too."

"Alright, then," not enough caring that the scalding hot liquid spilling onto his hands, Baroq so carelessly approaches her, "Fine. I'll stop calling you Lady Eleanor."

She sighs in relief,

"Thank you."

"How does 'old hag' sound?"

Eleanor huffs, taking it upon herself to give a swift kick to his shin.

"Ow!"

Baroq curses under his breath, as the scalding hot liquid pours over his hands, though he still retains his grip on the steaming mug.

Eleanor crosses her legs brazenly, "Oh, hush, you," she mutters, "I'm not _that_ old."

"N-Not yet, you're not," Baroq replies, the steaming mug—now only half full—in his hands, "and that kick actually hurt, thank you very much. Stilettos can be surprisingly painful."

Eleanor smirks derisively.

"Oh, believe me," she cackles, "I can do a _lot_ worse."

"You're bluffing," Baroq declares, shuffling forward, "You don't even have your staff."

Almost in defeat, Eleanor feebly brushes through her hair with thin fingers, as she sits up once more, eyeing the steaming, aromatic mug he holds in both of his hands.

"Shove, old hag. I need to sit down."

Black coffee, she observes with those sharp eyes of hers, as he takes his place next to her.

"Milk?"

Baroq raises an eyebrow, as he brings the cup to his lips.

"Milk?" he says incredulously, voice flat, "Why the hell would I want _milk_ in my _coffee_?"

The Black Witch blinks, "Any sugar in there?"

Another noisy sip.

"… Nope."

"Cinnamon?" she interrogates with a frown, "_Anything_ at all?"

"I don't like my coffee watered down by that sort of stuff," he explains, "Because, otherwise, you're not getting what you bargained for—a nice, _bitter_ cup of coffee."

"Coffee without anything in it is disgusting."

Baroq, similarly to what she had done before, eyes the glass in her hand, his gaze flickering between the half-empty bottle and the half-empty glass.

Choosing to ignore the fact that Eleanor only drank so excessively (especially at this time of the day) for a reason, he proceeds to mock her,

"Why are you drinking _wine_ in the afternoon, huh?" he shoots back, "Now _that's_ disgusting."

Eleanor jokingly sticks her nose up at him, before taking a sip from her cup with a smile curving on her lips.

"In my opinion," she mutters into the glass, "Coffee is especially disgusting when you drink it with _nothing else in it_."

"Oh, c'mon," he groans, "You take two coffee and seven sugars to a cup…"

"It makes it taste nicer—"

"—Seven sugars, _plus_ cream," he shakes his head, "And you wonder why you gain weight…"

Eleanor narrows her eyes at him—if it weren't for the fact that he was very useful when it came to doing things like delivering packets of Goddess-knows-what to Bavan, making conversation with people she doesn't particularly like, and doing paperwork, she would have fried him to a crisp long ago.

"Coffee's really unhealthy for you if you drink it with pretty much every meal, and drink tonnes of it in between, too, y'know—what with the heart disease, the stinky breath, and everything else."

Baroq shrugs, as he takes another sip.

"We've pretty much signed a death contract by joining this organization, Eleanor," he says simply, "if I'm going to die young, then I'm sure as hell going to enjoy my life by drinking as much coffee as I damn well please."

Eleanor, with eyes widened, feels her grasp around her wine glass grow tighter—why does he announce things like that so flippantly?

"Don't say stuff like that," she sighs, "We've lived up to this ripe old age, after all."

'_That, in itself, is a miracle._'

"You said that you weren't _that_ old."

She smiles wistfully, "Not yet, we're not."

Baroq, too, returns the smile.

"Still stealing my quotes," the wizard chuckles, "You never could think of your own jokes."

Her grip on the glass (trembling as though it was about to crack) loosens, as she lets out a fanciful sigh.

"Humour most certainly is not my niche," she replies, with a similar laugh—wistful, nostalgic, "We united under the common ground that neither of us were funny, after all."

Baroq, cup placed in his lap, finds his smile twisting from that of contemplation to that of foreboding. Are they not allowed to talk of their past, their future?

Eleanor clears her throat uncomfortably.

Indeed, they are not.

"Why did we come here?"

The remainder of the words that wish to leave Eleanor's lips remain unspoken—reminiscing what was, contemplating what could have been.

'_What did we leave it all behind for?_'

They never speak of what the future holds for them; the promises of the Black Mage.

It was too tempting, when they were younger—the dream of billions (_trillions_, even!) of mesos at their arsenal; a mansion with rooms embellished with gold, silver, platinum, and sparkling diamonds; lavish evening dresses and parties…

And yet, they were aware all along that was all they were; dreams, childish aspirations, _illusions_.

'_Why did we come here?_'

They know, oh, how they know. They figured out so long ago. In reality, there is no happy ending for the witch—the antagonist.

"Why?" Is his reply, for he, too, does not know the answer.

Eleanor narrows her eyes—violet eyes, dulled from years of monotony, lacking the youthful mirth that they once held so long ago. Violet once eyes full of hope, youth, and endless potential now gone to waste in this dark, dank hole, this pathetic excuse of an organization.

She has power, now, yes.

Riches, too, to some extent; material things that hardly mattered like desks used to sign paperwork of pure gold and marble, sparkling rings and trinkets, petty social functions.

"Our duty is to the Black Mage," she contemplates, "And, for him, we bleed, we fight."

She shudders, for there is nothing at the end of this, but death, destruction, malice, _pain_ to all. They are the antagonists, the pawns to the great chess game of the Black Wings, only dying to serve the king.

"For him, we die," she says, "And why?"

Once they fulfil this arbitrary goal—dying—then they are of no more use, after all.

"Why what?"

"We just do it, over, and over, and _over_ again. The cycle will never end. Nobody will ever get what they want."

Nobody will ever win this monotonous game, for there will always be pieces on the board for him to play with; to mock, to laugh at.

Nobody will ever remember the sacrifice, the bloodshed, much less _their_ sacrifice, nor _their_ bloodshed.

"What for?"

For the words that remain unspoken, and for the possibilities that never became a reality, a huge sadness wells up in her chest.

"_Why?_"

A huge sadness wells up in her chest, for the fact that she could have never met him—for the person she could have been.

What would have happened if they had not met each other at all?

Would they have happiness, love, freedom, and individuality, the things that they were promised so long ago?

Even without each other?

Do such things even exist in this life?

"You know what, Eleanor?"

She glances at him, eyes glimmering.

To her chagrin, he doesn't even bother looking at Eleanor, with the pain stinging at her eyes—_no_. The tears can flow when they were no longer on duty.

His voice drops to a lowly whisper, as he stares straight ahead, "I don't know either."

They sit and sip their drinks together in contemplative silence, waiting for the monotone voice over the speakers to call them all out again, and for the living stasis of their duties to resume.

'… _I don't know either._'

* * *

"_Bullshit_."

Cecelia pushes against the door once more, the clatter of knives and forks, and scraping of spoons against crockery (and, strangely, not much else – not even a single whisper, or so much as a laugh) sounding from the large doors.

She so desperately twists the door handle—jammed, like it was the last five or so times.

"This is bullshit…"

'_What? That you're not getting any lunch?_' she scoffs, '_Fatty._'

Sliding down the smooth surface of the door, knees bending until she reached the ground, she swears she can hear her blood boiling.

"What?" she bellows.

'_Fatty, fatty, Miss Bitchface…_'

"Don't you _ever_ call me that," Cecelia snarls menacingly.

'Excuse _me?_'

"Don't call me Miss Bitchface," she sighs, "Because my name is _Cecelia_. _See-see-li-ya_."

'_Oh, I thought you'd be a bit touchy about being called fat,_' she retorts, '_the name "Miss Bitchface" suits you a lot, actually. I didn't think you'd get so mad over it._'

"Do I need to explain this to you, like I did to Francis?"

'_You can't castrate me, no matter how hard you try,_'

Eyes widening at the mockery, a small giggle resounds in her ears – or brain, whatever she preferred.

"N-No… I mean… _Fuck_ – ugh…" she runs a hand through her hair, "Whatever. You don't even know why you have voices in my – your, _our_, whatever – head, do you?"

For the first time, in a very long time, her mind is silent – silent with contemplation, save for the occasional grunt and grumble.

Finally, she comes to a rather erroneous conclusion:

'_Sleep deprivation._'

"'That all you got, Miss Bitchface?"

'_Too much green tea, chewing on the ends of pencils and crayons…_' she rattles off, '_Our mother dropped us into a vat of radioactive waste while she was pregnant… Shit, I don't know!_'

Cecelia smirks, as a loud growl, agitated and, she would imagine, tearing her hair out – if she had any, that is.

'_You've been stuck with me for as long as I can remember!_' alter-Cecelia accuses, '_I bet _you_ don't know, either!_'

"Oh, but I _do_."

'_Why do you exist, then?_' she inquires, almost desperate

"It's more along the lines of why _you_ exist."

'_Why do I exist?_'

"Do you want to know so badly?"

Her smile grows wider, her index finger placed over her lips,

"The reason…"

'… _Yes?_'

Cecelia laughs wickedly in response, crossing her arms in rebellion.

'_Tch,_' she huffs, '_I can't stand you, sometimes. How do your friends – oh, sorry, wait…_'

"What?"

'_Forgive me, I made a mistake,_' she sneers, '_You only have _one_ friend, after all._'

* * *

"Hey, Cecelia…" she whispers.

The auburn-haired girl pokes her friend with the rubber end of her pencil, but to no avail.

Three weeks.

"Cecelia," she says louder, this time, prodding her once more, making sure not to puncture the tubes taped to her arm, "I brought your homework again."

_Three weeks_, already, and she hadn't moved an inch.

Her mother—a doctor, that had to give her _some_ credibility—said earlier that talking to people who were comatose helped stimulate their brains, and it helped them wake up more quickly. By what little progress she made, Amber began to question the credibility of this new-found research.

"That project on 'To Kill a Mockingbird' is due tomorrow," she laughs, though her eyes do not smile, "And you haven't even started!"

Typical Cecelia, Amber thinks. There are maths sheets, hand-out documents, test papers, and tutor booklets piled so nearly on the flimsy wooden chair next to the metal-framed bed.

"Ha."

All untouched, all incomplete. Exactly how she would have liked it.

"… Ha."

Maybe the notion of several overdue Geography field reports, English essays, and History projects would wake her up in an instant, and then she'd do it all over again.

Receive assignment; procrastinate; feebly attempt to do it all the night before, not attend school the next day due to "exhaustion"; hand in project the next day or next week, or even next _month_, depending on her mood…

It was no surprise that Cecelia's semester report wasn't much to write home about.

_Poke, poke…_

"I like to think you're just faking this, you know," Amber kneels by her side, "Just so you can get out of doing your homework. That's so _typical_ of you, Cecelia."

The pile, when she visits every three days or so, is gone—surely, her mother came around every now and then to collect it after she got home from work.

But there are so many things lining her desk already, that Amber wonders where she would put it all. She had the pleasure of witnessing the infamously dubbed "homework towers" in her bedroom, of course, so her room was _completely_ out of the picture.

"Hey, Cecelia…?"

A mischievous grin plays across her face, as she grabs the pencil in to a vice-like grip, some of the soft wood splintering under her tight grip.

'_This _always_ does the trick…_' Amber holds back a laugh.

* * *

"_Hey, Cecelia?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Are you looking forward to high school?"_

"_Heck yeah," Cecelia laughs, sticking her tongue out as she spins slowly, the rusted chains of the swing tangling as she does so, "I heard we can have parties and stuff when we get to high school."_

"_I heard there's a lot of schoolwork, though."_

"_Like hell _I'm_ ever going to do any schoolwork."_

"_Uniforms are really ugly, too—yellow, green and blue."_

"_You're crushing my dreams."_

* * *

She doesn't wake up, eyes widened, as she swore at her repeatedly, hitting her on the shoulder.

She doesn't jolt up in pain, biting down on her tongue to prevent herself from yelling every expletive known to man in the middle of class, or in the middle of the hospital ward.

She doesn't do _anything_.

Lowering her arm, Amber places her pencil back in her front blazer pocket.

* * *

"_Do you reckon we'll change, Cecelia?"_

_The twelve year-old frowns, as the swings stops creaking._

"_The hell are you on about?" she laughs, "Yeah, of course we will."_

_Amber sighs, _"_No, I mean…" she bites her lip, "I know we're going to be going to the same school, but are _we_ going to change?"_

_Cecelia comes to a—quite literally—screeching halt._

"_You and me?" she blinks, "Are you saying we won't be friends anymore, Amber?"_

* * *

"It's just not the same, Cecelia."

A tear slides down her cheek, something, she knows hasn't happened for years.

'… _Nothing's the same anymore._'

* * *

"_Of course we will."_

"_What?"_

"_Of course we'll stay friends," Cecelia holds out her hand, a wide grin stretching across her face, _"_I can't say that we won't change through high school, Amber, but I can promise you one thing."_

_She sticks out her pinky._

"_I'm never going to go away. You're stuck with me forever."_

_With a small smile hanging on her lips, hazel eyes sparkling, Amber entwines Cecelia's pinky in her own._

"_And nothing's _ever_ gonna change that, mate."_

"_Nothing?"_

_With a mischievous glint in her eye, Cecelia gives her a gap-toothed grin._

"_Nothing."_


	17. Paranoia

**Chapter 17**

With nose wrinkled in disgust, Casmilia shakes away the vine that had managed to tangle itself around the tip of her shoes.

"… Why aren't we taking the taxi?"

Andrew huffs in aggravation, clambering up the mossy wooden steps.

"The only reason we took it to Kerning City last time and to Perion to walk the way here, was so that we wouldn't get mugged, you know."

"Oh, come _on_," the thunder breaker groans, "You have the money, don't you?"

Blinking, the priest comes to a halt. He looks down at himself, while he lets out a dry laugh.

"Mate," he glances back at her again, "Just _look_ at me. I don't even have the money to buy a _shirt_."

"Oh, believe me," she smirks, "I'm not complaining."

Andrew rolls his eyes, "You never really struck me as a pervert, Casmilia. I'd always thought Erevians were sheltered folk."

"There are a lot of misconceptions about us," she explains, "_That_ one being one of the most common."

"Figures," he mutters coolly, placing his hands in his pockets, "You're Hawkeye's disciple, after all."

Casmilia gives a flippant wave, as though swatting away his words,

"Oh, c'mon," she whines, "Hawkeye's not _that_ bad."

"I'll bet he's out to impregnate every single girl—who is of legal age—on the face of Ereve," he smirks, "Except Caspeona, of course."

"That's not very nice."

"C'mon, she's fucking demonic!" he jeers, "And her skin is _blue_. _Blue_!"

He lets out a weary sigh, as he scrambles up the steps, breathes growing heavier as he walks slower—_slower_…

"Makes you wonder what sort of teacher Eckhart is for her to turn out like _that_, huh?"

"A couple of deformations can't be the fault of a teacher—"

"But Caspeona was _normal_ when I first met her," Andrew frowns, "And she had a bit of a tan, too. Maybe she just took after Eckhart?"

He looks Casmilia up and down.

"Hey," he hums, "Is it some sort of weird Erevian trend to have freakishly pale skin, or something? I saw this whitening cream stuff at the general store last time I went to Ereve…"

"I was _born_ with 'freakishly' pale skin, Andrew."

A broad grin lights up his features, "My condolences."

Casmilia feels her cheeks heating up ever so slightly, as she balls up her fists,

"H-_Hey_!"

"Maybe _you_ could take after Hawkeye."

Casmilia rolls her eyes, crossing her arms, "Are we there yet?"

He takes in his surroundings, as he clambers up the last step.

"Well, my friend Casmilia…"

He brushes past the bushes and shrubbery lining the trunk of the tree, to reveal a small, black tunnel—a small black tunnel with a shining blue portal at the end of it.

He smiles once more, as he waves her in.

"… Welcome to Ellinia."

* * *

Her jet-black ponytails swish around her ankles as she '_ooh_'s and '_ah_'s as the golden light, like strings of sunlight, diffuse through the thick canopies of the magical forest.

"This is so cool…" she coos, as her brilliant hazel eyes glimmer in fascination.

Andrew huffs.

"What," he scoffs, "Is this the first time you've been to a magical forest town filled with fairies and magic and other stuff?"

'_God,_' he thinks, '_I sound like I'm high on LSD…_'

She watches the fairies flicker around in an array of sparkles, carrying out their daily activities.

"Even Ereve isn't this magical," she breathes.

"Ereve isn't magical at all…" Andrew grumbles.

"Yeah, you're right," the voice interjects.

They whip around at the sound of the voice to find its source.

"I'd know."

"Wh-What…"

Looking her up and down, Hersha narrows his eyes. She has those noblesse robes, the distinct golden badge, and brass knuckles—there's no mistaking it…

"I am the Cygnus Knight agent stationed in Ellinia," he peers at her closer, "And _you_ look like this '_Casmilia_' person they've been talking about."

The thunder breaker raises an eyebrow.

"… '_They_'?"

"Nevermind," he looks around shiftily, "If anyone asks, I said nothing. Carry on, children."

Andrew steps forward, "Are you Hersha?"

Falling off the crates he sits upon, his heart rate spikes.

"H-H-How do _you_ know my name?" he stammers, not caring enough about the mud stains as he desperately crawls backwards away from him.

How does a lowly _priest_ know of his identity?

Andrew rolls his eyes at his dramatic display of distress.

"This is Casmilia," he motions to the younger teenager by his side, "She is the thunder breaker of Ereve who was sent to assist you."

"Ah, so it _is_ her."

Clambering back on to those boxes of his, Hersha pensively begins to tap his finger against his chin.

"I'm afraid your friend cannot come along with you for these missions any longer."

Casmilia's eyes widen,"Wh-What?"

"Weren't you told that these missions are top-secret, and that you should tell absolutely no-one that you are affiliated with this organization?" He says vexedly.

"But I—"

"If you wanted me to be perfectly honest," Andrew cuts in, "She couldn't have done any of the missions on her own."

Casmilia whips around, face flushed, "_Hey!_"

"If you may kindly leave," he says too sweetly, "Then I will assign a mission for Casmilia that is—hopefully—not too taxing that it requires the help of someone with a higher level of experience."

"Hersha, Andrew's my friend—"

The agent turns to the knight, eyes narrowed, "Nobody is to be trusted—not even your so-called '_friends_'. You are carrying out top secret missions here."

Andrew throws his hands in the air in a display of defeat.

"Fine."

"What?"

"Fine," he repeats, fiddling through his pockets, "You win."

Fishing out a bag filled to the brim with golden coins and wads of cash, he hands it to Casmila.

"Take it."

"What is it?"

"Mesos, genius," he says flippantly, "Believe me, I _know_ you don't want to walk everywhere. This should be more than enough to get you all the way around Victoria Island three times—more, maybe."

Casmilia looks through the bag, the loincloth ripping at the seams.

"There's at least fifty thousand in here…"

He coolly waves her goodbye, "Have a good life."

"Wait!"

Andrew swirls around, "What?" he says, hands still in his pockets.

"Where are you going?"

"Ludibrium."

"What for?"

"I figured I should train for the first time in God-knows-how-long," he shrugs, "I'm nearly a bishop, so I might as well just go all the way."

He turns around again, before walking off towards the Six Path Crossway.

"Adieu."

"Hey!"

She stares on, as he steps through the portal, without even so much as a glance back.

"Your mission."

Snapped out of her thoughts, Casmilia clears her throat.

"My mission?"

The boy hands the teenager a clear, vine-entwined bottle, "Collect clear tree sap from the chimney tree at the very top of the Ellinian forest, and make Arwen drink it."

Casmilia balls her hands into fists, as she hesitantly reaches out to pluck the glass bottle from his grasp.

"I'm sure you can manage this one without your friend."

The ebony-haired Cygnus Knight gives a scowl.

"Arwen?" she questions derisively, "Who's that, and what do I have to feed it to her for?"

Hersha gives a small smile.

"Ah, that is a good question," he chuckles, "The blonde fairy with the blue headband and yellow dress—it's because she, in my eyes, is a very suspicious figure concerning these matters."

"How?"

She's always losing those glass shoes of hers!" Harsha scoffs, "And they're _always_ found in Perion, no less. What Ellinia-loving fairy would go to _Perion_, of all places?"

The agent shakes his head.

"Something is very wrong with her, surely."

Casmilia raises an eyebrow—what is so bad about losing your shoes on a regular basis? Nevertheless, she continues on.

"So what's the clear tree sap for?"

"I was hoping you'd ask that," he grins cheekily, "Basically, the way the tree sap works is that, whenever someone dishonest and guilty consumes it, it acts as a deadly poison."

Casmilia gulps.

"So you're going to poison this Arwen person?"

"If she's been honest lately, then it acts as a blessing—if she's been lying, then bad luck to her."

Hersha points in the direction of a portal up in the trees, "Go forth, child."

"… This is stupid."

"I'm sorry?"

And, within the blink of an eye, the thunder breaker vanishes into the tree tops.

* * *

Francis lets out a small sigh, as he stretches his arms out.

"Let's get down to business," he cracks his knuckles with a cheeky grin, "Shall we?"

Her voice wavers ever so slightly, as she clenches her fists, "Francis…"

Not caring enough to listen to her pleas—_excuses, excuses…—_he simply leans forward, examining her expression.

"Where are you going?"

To this, he sees blankness. He can't read into anything in her expression, her lips forming into a tight line.

"Um…"

Maybe that twiddling of thumbs is a nervous habit; the biting of her lip as she looks down might mean something.

"You need a direction," he explains, as he crawls forward—_creak, creak_, "Some place to go, a place to hide."

_Creeeaaaak…_

"The bed's shaking," she interjects, clearing her throat awkwardly, shuffling back in answer, "I think we should move down to the bottom bunk. Cecelia might come back again, anyway—"

"You _really_ haven't thought this through, have you?"

It isn't a question—it isn't even a declaration. It's a fact that is so blaringly, _painfully _obvious.

"Ha-ha…"

And still, she holds her hands up, shaking her head with a nervous smile on her lips—excuses, _excuses_…

"O-Of course I have thought this out!" she exclaims, "You were just intervening with my… My _own_ plans!"

"_What_ plans?" he sighs irately, "You didn't even have anything _on_ you—nothing except that shawl you brought when you first came here. Don't you know what Edelstein winter is like?"

The puppeteer narrows his eyes, still hugging the puppet closer to himself.

"Do you _want_ to die, Reina?"

"I feel not a need to answer that question."

"Interesting," he tilts his head to the side, bangs barely brushing against his shoulders, "It's interesting, how you managed to answer that so quickly."

Reina throws her arms up in the air—first, it was in defensive denial, and now it is in defeat.

"I have no idea where I am going!"

Francis's eyes widen, as he shuffles back, the bunk bed beneath him creaking slightly as he does so.

"There!" she wails in defeat, "Are you happy now?"

His face falls into a deadpan once more.

"Oh?" he intones darkly, "Of _course_ you know where you're going."

"What?"

The boy begins by staring into the wall behind her with a snide smirk as he imitates the melodrama of her actions—her words.

"_Away_," he mocks, "You shall get away from it all."

"I _told_ you that I have no idea where I'm going, so will you _please_ stop making a mockery—"

"What are you planning?" he says all of a sudden.

Reina frowns, "Why is it that you need to know?"

"You have no _plan_, either. That's wonderful," Francis rolls his eyes.

"I do have a plan," she huffs, turning her head.

"Then tell me."

"I feel not a need to disclose such information."

"Why?"

Reina frowns.

"_Why _what_?_"

"Why are you here?"

Reina clenches her fist, her jaw tightening—he wouldn't know any better, would he? Those narrowed eyes, that scrutinizing gaze, and those pursed lips say otherwise.

She swallows, "I do not know much," she lies through clenched teeth—perhaps he would take this annoyance, and subsequently drop the topic, "Other than the fact that I am not here by my own volition."

It isn't the truth—the entirety of it, anyway. Even half-truths seem to do, however, as the little boy laps it all up, a finger placed pensively over his lips.

"I see…"

Reina lets out a sigh of relief—she begins her own little interrogation.

"Do _you_ know why I'm here?"

The doll master hums in response, finger still place on his lips—she wouldn't know any better, would she? The stupid, strange girl: she gazes on in genuine curiosity, lips slightly parted.

It wouldn't hurt to lie, right?

"I don't know either," he claims, "That's why I asked you. Orca won't tell me why they're taking in these new recruits using this… Method."

"Orca?" is the low voice that rings from the doorway.

Reina turns around—slowly, so _slowly_…—as she, with widened eyes, sights the Black Witch leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.

"L-Lady Eleanor," she stammers, as the older woman glares daggers into her.

"… I shall deal with you later, Reina."

She hiccoughs, before she sets down the corridor once more.

"… Why?"

Francis tilts his head to the side,

"Why what?"

In a sudden act of desperation, she clutches at the little boy's collar,

"Why did we leave the door open?" the petite teenager shakes him, eyes widened in fear, "She will surely kill me now!"

"I thought you _wanted_ to die."

"Now that we now have a plan, I don't…"

Her grip on him loosens, as she shivers, "How long was she standing there for, overhearing us talking…" she mutters, drawing in deep breaths, "What is she going to do now?"

"Relax."

Fury boils from the pit of her stomach, as her fear builds up into scorching rage.

"How can I relax when she knows _exactly_ what we have planned?"

"Her cheeks were flushed," he observes, "She's been drinking."

Reina blinks, "What?"

"When Eleanor drinks, Reina," Francis sighs, "Oh, she _drinks_."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She won't remember a word we said, Reina," he places his hand over hers in reassurance, capturing her gaze, "Trust me."

For the longest few seconds in her life, he stares into her eyes—searching for some form of agreement, or peace.

"Now, we need an escape route…"

* * *

"Oh, this is simply too kind of you!"

The flaxen-haired fairy feels her glossy pink lips curve into a shy smile, as she, with those small, dainty hands of hers, grabs the bottle.

"Nobody, not a single person, has given me a present so glorious in many, _many_ years."

With this, Arwen takes a swig, as Casmilia leans forward in anticipation, raising an eyebrow when she realizes she is wearing but one glass slipper. Is this fairy as suspicious as Hersha makes her out to be?

'_She _seems _nice,_' she notes the mirror situated in her left hand with scrutinizing eyes, '_If not a bit vain…_'

Lapping up the last drop of the tree sap, she then wipes the edge of her lip with the back of her hand.

The young fairy raises the mirror to her eye-level, as she gazes on in amazement.

"Thank you for that, human child," she says, not bothering to look up as she strokes her own cheek with a small giggle, "I now look ten years younger!"

Casmilia peers closer at the fairy.

"I… I don't see any difference."

Arwen gives another giggle, "You are far kinder than any human I have ever met," she comments, "Remind me to reward you dearly."

Casmilia hums half-heartedly, muttering something along the lines of '_yeah, thanks_' before she leaves the fairy to her own devices.

Obviously, the effects of the potion were _very_ much positive—unless deadly poison also happens to have anti-ageing properties as some sort of strange side-effect.

'_Time to report back to Hersha…_' she rolls her eyes at the thought.

* * *

"So Arwen isn't the culprit, eh?"

Casmilia stares at the agent, expression unyielding.

'_What made you think that she _was_?_'

He taps his foot impatiently on the grass as the very much crazy knight mutters to himself—not caring enough to listen, Casmilia looks down to her nails. They are probably a heck of a lot more interesting than what he's prattling off, after all.

"Ah-ha!"

Her heart thuds as she jumps up ever so slightly, while Hersha gives a sharp laugh, a twinkle in his eye.

"I think I have found the solution!"

Casmilia musters the flattest voice she can possibly manage,

"What is it?"

* * *

"You…"

She whacks against the stalk of the plant, as it trembles under the tremendous force of her punches—as much as she'd like to channel her mana and charge her fists with lightning, she found out the hard way that they did nothing but char the tree and the fruit it bore…

"_Can't_…"

The fruit finally falls from its thick branches.

"_Be_…"

She stows it back into her pocket, as she stomps through the damp ground, the leaves squelching under her sandals.

Sure, these fruits may have poisoned Hersha—but what did that have to do with the weird dolls?

With more force and rage than before, Casmilia punches at the thin stalk of the plant once more.

"**_Serious_**!"

The second fruit comes flying off its branches—only eight to go…

* * *

"I…" she growls.

Dark circles still evident in those dull eyes of hers, Cecelia buries her face in her pillow, pushing it toward her face,

"_Can't…_"

Fearing the fact that she may suffocate, the mattress gives a loud creak as she leans her elbows against the pillow (which she so affectionately referred to as a sack full of rocks), burying her face in her palms.

Cecelia howls out in pure rage, a tinge of frustration seeping into her words.

"_Sleep!_"

'_Didn't you take a nap a while ago?'_

"Ugh, I'm trying to sleep off the hunger—the fact that I got locked out of the dinner hall doesn't really help, now," she says derisively, "Does it? Huh?"

Rolling over, she finds her eyes washing over the oh-so-lovely-view of the creaky metal bars holding the other mattress up.

"We have to get up before the sun even rises, anyway—might as well get as much sleep as possible, yeah?"

Inner-Cecelia huffs, '_Just do whatever you want, man.'_

Rolling over, Cecelia finds her face buried in her so-called pillow once again, heavy lids finally shutting as she lets out a small, peaceful sigh…

_Knock._

**_Knock._**

Teeth gritted, she thrusts the pillow as close to the door as possible.

"What?" she screeches, greasy hair still in tresses blocking her peripheral vision, as the bed trembles under her sheer rage, "I'm not going to eat lunch! _Go away_!"

The door creaks open ever so slightly, letting in so much as a sliver of light.

"I'm not, either."

Cecelia bunches up the covers, as she gazes in horror at the figure in the doorway.

"E-Eleanor…"

She pulls up a chair next to her—Cecelia swore she could smell the faintest scent of alcohol on her breath as she sighs erratically, running a hand through cropped hair.

"Cecelia."

The teenager narrows her eyes at the Black Witch—are her _cheeks_ flushed?

'_Probably drunkenly stumbled into your room to clobber you half to death._'

"Shut up," she mutters under her breath, "That's actually a very real possibility…"

Eleanor returns the look, "What was that?"

"What are you doing here?" Cecelia says—louder, this time around.

"I am here to discuss with you about your training."

Cecelia's widen in horror—surely, she has seen what this has done to Reina, because Eleanor lets out a dark, dry laugh,

"I'll be easier on you, Cecelia," she says darkly, "no broken bones, I can promise _that_ much."

"… But my arm's still broken."

"But _magic_," she shoots back, "it doesn't require _both_ of your arms, now, does it?"

Cecelia gulps.

'_Of _course,' she thinks, heaving in a heavy sigh, '_I'm a magician now, aren't I? Like Harry Potter._'

'… _Or Neville Longbottom._'

Cecelia lets out a low growl—so low that nobody but her could hear it, thankfully enough.

"You know what, Cecelia?"

The ebony-haired girl suddenly tries to appear as peppy and alive as possible, propping herself up on the bed frame.

"What?"

"We'll get started tonight, with your training."

She swirls on her heel—how do those stilettos not break after days upon _days_ of constant wear?—with a giggle.

Cecelia swings her legs over the edge of the bed, heart beat racing in protest.

"What?" she exclaims.

"Meet me in the training hall," she instructs, "I'll get _dearest_ Francis to escort you after dinner."

"Wait—"

It is already too late to object, as Cecelia lunges for the door that has already been slammed shut.

* * *

Casmilia picks the leaves out of her knuckles, eyes widened as the name that meets her ears is an unfamiliar one.

"Grendel?" she raises an eyebrow.

Hersha gives a sharp, stubborn nod, "Grendel the Very, Very Old."

"How can be he suspicious if he's very, _very_ old?"

"Ah," the inquisitive syllable always seems to leave his lips, "When Grendel was a tad younger, he used to practice a little something we like to call necromancy."

"Seriously?"

"Don't you know why there are Zombie Lupins all around Ellinia?"

"Um…"

He taps his forehead, "The tags on their heads, the golden strings attached to their king—the cursed dolls!"

Hersha clicks his fingers. And, like that, for the first time in a long time—judging from the time, it _was_ nearly mid-afternoon after her little escapade—it all falls into place.

"We shall investigate his home tomorrow," Hersha decides, "I will distract him and get his alibi—while _you_, Casmilia, will search his library and find as much evidence as possible."

Casmilia gives a small, sharp nod.

"Tomorrow."

… Finally, this all makes sense.

* * *

The paper scrunches under her clawed hands, nails piercing the fragile paper.

"Is this a _syllabus_, Neinheart?"

He looks down at the young girl, sprawled out in that leather armchair with a frown penetrating her features.

"In order to train your future students," he says, adjusting his monocle, "No matter how talented you are as a night walker, you must learn the techniques as to how to teach them."

Caspeona scrunches the yellowing parchment into a ball, as she throws it into the bin.

"Shouldn't I just have my own teaching style, or something?" she throws the wad of paper into the bin with ease, "Besides, I thought I was filling in as chief night walker _temporarily_. Why the hell should I do this?"

Neinheart retrieves the paper from the paper bin, as he unravels it, clearing his throat.

"You will also get to know your peers better."

He places it on her lap, expression rigid, "I'm sure you can make use of that—even if you're only filling in _temporarily_, you will still have to work with them for years to come."

He leaves her to her own devices—pleading in his mind for her to not tear up the syllabus he so elaborately created for her—as he walks towards the door.

"Chief Knights like Eckhart are very few and far in between; very few can fulfil the position he has filled in for so long without being driven insane."

"Then how have the other knights stayed so long and stayed so happy?"

He leans his hand against the door frame, as he glances over his shoulder.

"Eckhart was a very troubled man, Caspeona."

He shuts the door behind him.

'… _You'll know why soon enough._'

* * *

When she first had a cocktail in the afternoon, her first thoughts of it was that it was somewhat _absurd_, to some extent—that, being the understatement of the year.

She peers around the bar, not quite believing that people weren't staring at her or judging her; much less that there were even people _there_ at a bar at such an hour.

This is what people did when they didn't have anything better to do with their time, right?

This is normal.

… This is what people did with colleagues, or close friends.

The night lord downs her cup—the sweet pomegranate with a kick of rum did just the trick.

"Drinking alone at two o'clock in the afternoon?"

Of course—the stigma of being a lone drinker has long since subsided, as anyone drinking in a bar at this time was a lone drinker, after all.

"That's never a good look."

Eckhart had only planned on buying a soda—nearly half a day of searching in that ghost town without even so much as a bite for breakfast tends to exhaust people.

Maybe he should take the time to unwind, perhaps meet someone new.

If downing a cocktail in the afternoon is good enough for this nice-looking girl sitting at the end of the bar, why isn't it good enough for him?

He knocks back the whiskey with a wince—the sweet burn of the alcohol at the back of his throat is an unfamiliar one.

The brunette glances at him, noticing his face is covered by a mask, not sure whether to be offended or not, she simply shrugs.

"It's always better for two people to look silly drinking themselves silly at this hour, right?" his voice is light and airy.

She does not respond as he pulls out a bar stool—with many years of training as an assassin under her belt, if this man tried anything funny, she needn't worry. Besides, she can tell from that waver to the end of his words—the role of the flirt is one that is unfamiliar to him.

Taking a sip from her cup, she raises an eyebrow as she looks him up and down.

… Why does he seem so familiar?

"Lana," she says into her glass.

Brushing away her bangs, the older woman raises an eyebrow at his bewildered expression.

"What is it?"

"Lana, what the hell are you doing in a _bar_?"

"Do I know you?"

Roughly pulling away his mask with his free hand, he reveals his bewildered expression; eyes widened, lips slightly parted in exasperation.

"Eckhart," he manages to sputter.

Hiding her surprise with a mask of stoicism, she remarks wryly, "Eckhart, what the hell are _you_ doing in Kerning City?"

"Looking for you—"

And there, right there, it sounds through the bar—like a clap of thunder. Knocked to the floor, clutching at his cheek, he winces as the white-hot pain settles in.

"Wh-What?" he stammers, eyes widening, as he looks up at his looming master.

"You _son of a bitch_," she spits.

Lana picks him up by the fur-lined collar, with near-impossible strength.

"I sent you _so_ many, and absolutely _nothing_ came back," she narrows her eyes spitefully, "I thought you were _dead_!"

"You sent me _what_…?"

"_Letters_, you half-wit!" she bellows, releasing him from her vice-like grip, "You never sent any back! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

All of a sudden, just as Eckhart found his balance, he is pulled into a tight embrace. Lana whispers into his shoulder, he swore that a strange dampness soaked his uniform…

"You had me worried _sick_."

With a sniffle, memories wash over her and out of her through closed lids—Eckhart throwing his very first subi; his first mushroom slain at the construction site; the triumphant smiles; the laughter; the sorrowful tears; the goodbyes…

His ex-instructor smiles forlornly, as she takes his strong hand into her bony one.

"I missed you, you know that?"

"I missed you, too," he sighs, expression unyielding, like she always remembered it as.

A small pause, as a smile graces her lips.

"Do you like pizza, Eckhart?" is what breaks it.

Eckhart blinks in response.

"I love pizza, Lana."

She rises from her seat, as she places mesos on the counter—for the both of them—as she punches digits into her phone, a derisive smirk playing on her lips.

"Then let's get some."

* * *

Eckhart's head spins—in the span of not but (give or take) ten minutes, he has managed to bump into his old teacher he spent hours searching for, then gave up and drank the first cocktail he had ever drunk since they prohibited the wine from being drunk during those stupid formal parties no thanks to a certain thunder breaker…

And here he is, witnessing her catch a huge string of cheese, spin it around her finger, and pop it into her mouth—all with a goofy smile stretching across her face.

Lana was always smiling, and, thankfully, she still is—it seems not much has changed…

"So, Eckhart," she looks towards him, still munching on her slice of margarita, "What do you like to do for fun?"

Mouth full of gooey cheese, he replies, in the flattest voice he can manage, "Cutting myself and eating the souls of dead babies."

Roars of laughter reverberate through the small studio apartment—she fears choking on her slice of pizza.

"That's the one thing that hasn't changed, huh?" she guffaws in between laughs, "Your sense of humour!"

Eckhart smiles in return, for the first time in what seems to be a long time, "Your laugh hasn't changed either."

As the laughter dies down, her smile of merriment takes an indefinable turn—she pulls back her chair.

"Do you know what _I_ like to do for fun, Eckhart?"

There is a mischievous glint in her eyes, as Eckhart finds himself—unwittingly—leaning back.

"What _do_ you do for fun, Lana?"

Lana leans over the table, not but a foot in front of him, as she lowers her voice to a husky whisper.

"… Let me show you."


	18. Seeing Red

**Chapter 18**

"Y'know," Eckhart remarks wryly, holding his watering can over a potted hydrangea, "I had something _completely_ different in mind."

"Oh, hush, child," she mocks, "I can't believe you actually _thought_ of that. All you men are the same… You're way too young for me."

"I can't believe you actually _thought_ to trick me like this."

"Stop whining!" She rolls her eyes, "Watering plants can't be _that_ bad, can it?"

"You're such a tight-arse," he mutters, "Only old people have watering cans."

"Tch…"

He moves the watering can over the plants with a frown on his face.

"Why did you get pot plants?" he questions, "_How_ did you get them to begin with? You didn't have them before."

Lana furrows her brow, "It's a long story."

Eckhart sets down his watering can, as he props his elbow up against the balcony, gazing at her.

"I have time."

Lana smiles wistfully, as she, too, cups her face in her hands, leaning against the cold metal railing as she lets the breeze—smelling of bitumen and salmonella infected foods from those stalls—caress her hair.

"Do you remember your auntie, Eckhart?" she glances at him, "Aunt Lillian. The one that always invited me over to your house for your birthday, then gave us sweets and macaroons? She made the _best _macaroons."

Eckhart blinks.

"I can't really remember her," he admits, "But go on."

"I got really close to her over the time that you were gone—I guess it was my way to cling on to you after I was gone."

Eckhart frowns, and yet she continues.

"I stayed with her for a couple of years when she was old, in fact."

Lana's smile turns solemn, now.

"Just last year…"

Eckhart leans in out of anticipation,

"What happened?"

She lowers her gaze, shutting her eyes…

"They say it was medical malpractice—it was a very small stroke, everyone expected her to make a speedy recovery."

Lana's eyes are dry, though her voice cracks.

"Especially considering how _youthful_ she was," she subconsciously looks away,

Eckhart places a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Lana."

Lana slaps his hand away, to which Eckhart recoils.

"Well, sure, she _may_ have been 81, but…"

"S-Sorry—but what does this have to do with the pot plants?"

The night lord clears her throat.

"You see, I was distraught—shattered," she mutters, "I was very close to Lily. It seemed she left too soon."

She looks down to her array of plants—blooming flowers, prickly cactuses, and everything in between—with a smile.

"If you actually remembered Lillian, Eckhart," she lifts one of the pot plants from its holster, "Then you may remember that she absolutely _loved_ gardening. They say she had a green thumb."

She looks to him meaningfully, still a smile playing on her lips,

"And your uncle told me, one day, when he was cleaning out her room," she caresses the plant—a pure white lily, "That I should take a part of her with me."

"Oh my God."

Lana lets out a laugh.

"I know, I know," she chuckles, "It's really cheesy."

"I'm really just wondering what went through Uncle's mind when he left her pot plants with you."

"My thoughts exactly," Lana rolls her eyes, "I looked after it and everything—I watered it. Gave it that plant food stuff you find at the flower store. I think I talked to it at one point, too…"

"It died, didn't it?"

His teacher rolls her eyes once more.

"… I felt pretty darn terrible about it, too. I knew it would die, sure—but I didn't think I'd feel _that_ guilty about it."

She huddles the pot closer to her with a smile.

"So I left it out here," she muses, gazing at it with a glint in her eye, "and learned that the best way for me to take care of plants is to ignore them."

"… And to invite strange men to come over to your house for pizza, then force them to water your plants."

She plucks out weeds from the soil, letting out a light laugh, "You're _strange_, sure, but I _know_ you, at least."

Eckhart takes a leaf of the plant and rubs it in between his fingers.

"The leaves are yellow," he observes, "I guess leaving them alone didn't do much, after all."

"Yellow's a natural colour!"

With a pout, Lana tears the pot plant from his grasp and slams it back where it belonged—the porcelain threatening to crack under the sheer impact.

This time, it is Eckhart's turn to laugh, as she drags him inside by the elbow.

"So what _happened_ in Ereve over the past couple of years, huh?" she pulls out a chair for both of them, "Do _you_ have an interesting story to share?"

Eckhart lets out a sigh, as he simply stares straight ahead,

"Trust me," he mutters coolly, "It's a _long_ story."

Lana saunters into her kitchen, as she takes the screeching kettle off the stove, smirking as she fills up one of those antique teapots of hers.

"… I have time."

And as afternoon slowly drifted into evening, the sun setting into the clouds, conversation flowed freely.

And as they talked, and talked—and _talked_—about everything about the people they knew, their work—or lack thereof—even everything to books and famous historical figures…

Eckhart found himself laughing for the first time he had done in years.

* * *

"… Why did the dining hall sound so noisy during lunch?"

Eleanor sets down her fork with a raised eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"OK, so the dining hall was pretty dam—darn quiet," she crosses her arms, "But there were a hell of a lot more people, I saw them walking in."

Eleanor, almost bitterly, stabs her food with her fork.

"We all live here in the Verne mine, that's why."

Cecelia peers around the hall, with its high ceilings and drab, steel-grey walls—not even so much as a sign of life beyond the flickering candles embedded in to the walls, and Francis' noisy munching.

"Why doesn't anyone else live here?" Cecelia questions.

"This is the equivalent of living in a homeless shelter," Eleanor answers spitefully, "It is shameful that we have nowhere else to go—nothing else to live for, because our life is our work, and our sacrifice to the Black Mage."

Reina uncomfortably picks at her half-cooked rice with her fork, as Cecelia lowers her gaze, twiddling her thumbs.

"But we _do_ have something to live for," Baroq adds.

Francis, however, appears oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

Eleanor peers over at the little boy sitting at the end of the table—maybe _he_ is reason enough to keep going.

Maybe, when they are given what the Black Mage promises, finally, he will be as happy as they once were as children.

Perhaps he has seen more than they have when _they_ were his age; perhaps _they_ can rectify that.

"Don't we, Eleanor?"

Eleanor gives a small, forlorn smile.

"… Maybe we do."

Cecelia raises an eyebrow, as she leans in towards the fair-haired girl next to her.

"What the hell are they talking about?" she whispers.

Reina shrugs, as she scoops more rice in to her mouth, pushing the slabs of roast pork to the edge of her plate, nose wrinkled as she takes the food on to her fork.

"Cecelia?"

Cecelia's fork clatters to the ground as Eleanor's voice sounds through the hall.

"I have finished dinner," she proclaims, "Meet me down in the training hall. Again, I will remind Francis to escort you."

Cecelia's eye twitches involuntarily.

"… Right."

Reina looks at her worriedly.

"What's going to happen?"

Feigning indifference, she gives a contrived shrug, as Francis rises from his seat, giving a curt nod.

"'Be fucked if I know," are the last words to leave her lips as she is ushered out of the room.

* * *

A bead of cold sweat rolls down her temple, as that smash of the stone door as it slams shut is, she understands, one that instils fear into the hearts of many.

Lit only by primitive torches lining the room, there are splatters of maroon and scarlet lining the walls, the tiles—it would have been a darling colour, if not for the fact that it hadn't resembled bits of scalp and brain-matter.

"Oh, don't mind the stains," _clack, clack_—her footsteps ring sharp in her ears, "The cleaners will come in tomorrow morning."

They come to a sharp stop, and Cecelia gulps.

"So, from what I understand," She paces around her, as Cecelia finds her jaw tightening, gaze lowered to the floor, as Eleanor inspects her, sizes her up, "You are a novice magician."

Cecelia doesn't even care enough to speak. She doesn't even _need_ to.

"Did you take the test by Grendel?" her voice booms through the vast hall, "The evaluation?"

Cecelia still stares blankly at the floor, hands places behind her back.

"That one which helps to suggest what path you should take in your second job advancement, that is."

Once more, she does not need to speak, as Eleanor hums in bemusement.

"So you have nearly reached a level high enough to take your second job advancement," she laughs a cruel laugh, "And you've not been given an idea of what path you should take for the rest of your life!"

Cecelia simply makes circles in the floor with her boots.

'… _Wow,_' he inner self muses with an offhand laugh, '_You've shut up for once._'

She remains tight-lipped. If what she says in here is a matter of life and death, then why not maximise her chances of survival? Certainly, lashing out on herself is _not_ a good look…

"The magician training regime Grendel has set out is a _joke_," Eleanor sneers, "Even in fourth advancement, you are taught only the most basic of magic."

This time, Cecelia cannot hold her tongue: "Summoning stuff and blasting things into oblivion is _basic_ magic? Destroying matter—which, according to my year seven science textbook, cannot be destroyed—can't be _that_ basic."

"Oh, no, _no_, Cecelia," Eleanor shakes her head for dramatic effect, "Magic reaches depths much deeper than destroying physical matter. If you're given the right abilities, you can tamper with the fabrics of time and space—or cheat Goddess, if you're up to it."

As she looks her up and down for at least the fifth time, she places her hand on her chin.

"Magic triumphs over science in this world, you see."

Cecelia gulps—in what world is solid scientific evidence undermined by _magic_?

'_Come to think of it,_' she muses, hoping her wandering thoughts would stop the cold sweat growing on her forehead, '_It's the same in real life, too—as long as religion exists, that is…'_

"Say, Cecelia."

Cecelia shuffles, as she stares down at the floor—Eleanor takes her chin in two of her fingers.

"Cecelia, answer me."

"Yes, Eleanor?" she says through clenched teeth.

Deciding to let her off for her tone, Eleanor decides, "I, the Black Witch of Maga—Edelstein," she intones, "Will interpret your affinity."

"What—"

Before she can utter another word, the witch's fingers glow a soft shade of lavender, and Eleanor, with breakneck speed—before she can slap them away, that is—presses them to her forehead.

Eleanor gives a wicked grin, as Cecelia's widen, her entire life flashing before her.

"… Hold still, darling."

* * *

"My, oh _my_, Eckhart," Lana pours the younger man a cup of tea, crow's feet evident as she shoots him a sweet smile, "You're taller than me now."

Steaming tray of tea in her hands, her grin grows wider.

"Unbelievable," the night lord breathes.

"If I was shorter than _you_ at this age," he shoots back wryly, setting his too-heavy mask on the table, "Then that'd be a _little_ bit pathetic, you know?"

Lana laughs, as she sets the tea tray on the table, pulling out a chair.

"Heh," the older woman pinches his cheek, "I remember I used to call you 'squirt' because you were so _short_…"

Eckhart takes a sip, expression unyielding.

"And what exactly are you trying to say…?" he attempts to swat her hand away.

"I'm saying you've grown up, now, Eckhart," Lana's smile falters, "You're not that kid I used to know."

She takes her own mug, cupping it in her hands, as she lets the scent of tea tickle her nose…

"So, Eckhart," she begins.

"So, Lana," he retorts.

"I heard that magician girl with the fiery red hair became the chief Blaze Wizard, something like that…" she muses, swirling the translucent liquid in her cup.

He mentally cringes at the thought.

"You used to talk to her all the time – what's her name…"

"… Oz."

"Eh?"

"Oz," he says, "Her name is Oz."

With the click of a finger, she smirks triumphantly.

"Aha! _Bingo_!" she laughs, "That's the one! _Oz_! Are you still friends with her?"

Hesitantly, he answers.

"_Yes_, we're still friends."

'… _Friends,_' he thinks bitterly, lifting the cup to his lips.

Needless to say, Eckhart seemed rather downcast – of course, one could come to the conclusion that he grew up.

But what happened to that happy-go-lucky boy hadn't a care in the world, other than become the best night lord known to mankind?

Surely, the loss of his inherently chaste nature (as with what happened with most thieves when they progressed through the ranks) couldn't possibly turn him into _this_…

The way he hunched over the tea cup, and subconsciously sighed every now and then—Lana frowned at his despondency.

"Eating the souls of babies doesn't really work out for you," she leans in closer, "Does it?"

He slams the cup on the table, as he ruffles his hands through his hair with a sigh.

"No," he says icily, "No, it doesn't."

"Aw, you poor baby…" she flings an arm over his shoulder, hoping to offer _some_ form of sympathy before he simply swatted her hand away again, "You could have written back to me about it, you know?"

Eckhart, to her surprise, takes hold of her arm, and brings her in closer.

"You never wrote to me to begin with," he says with a raised eyebrow, "How was I supposed to write _back_ to you?"

"What do you mean?" she places her tea cup back on the tray.

Eckhart's eyes widen—the table rattles under his sheer rage as his fist meets the table.

"Those _bastards_!"

"What?"

"I wrote to you every _week_!" he exclaims, "Where did all those letters go?!"

As Lana shifts the tea tray back to the centre of the table, Eckhart narrows his eyes at the teapot. Porcelain, trimmed with gold paint, with pictures of flowers embedded in…

"… That's mother's teapot."

"What?"

"I wrote to you about my parents."

"Your mother is—"

"I know about my mother—it happened long ago. Where is my father?"

"E-Eckhart…"

He seizes her by the shoulder, as Lana's breath is knocked out of her.

"_Where_ is he?!"

Her lips are parted in silent shock.

"I-I'll…" she stammers, tears threatening to leave her eyes, "I'll take you to him."

Eckhart continues to stare at her, "Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Lana pulls back her seat, as she glances at the analogue clock up on the other side of the room.

"It's getting late, Eckhart," she decides, "We'll go tomorrow."

As she takes her tray of tea back into the kitchen, a small, sad smile traces over her features.

'_I can promise you that much._'

* * *

Eleanor finds her purple lips curving into a smirk.

"Ah," she hums, fingers still glowering, "So _this_ is why he chose _you_, of all people."

Cecelia frowns, a droplet of sweat dripping down the side of her face as her brow trembles.

"What is it?"

Eleanor pulls away.

"Your affinity…"

"Huh?"

"It is one of darkness."

Cecelia finds herself raising an eyebrow.

"The fuck does _that_ mean?"

'_It means you now have an _excuse_ to angst about everyone and everything, and then dye your hair some ungodly fluorescent shade of pink while you flood buildings with your tears of blood._'

"Awesome," Cecelia breathes, rolling her eyes.

"It means you hold a lot of hatred in your heart," Eleanor explains, "Which manifests itself as a form of deadly power only very few can control to their own volition."

"Oh," Cecelia hums half-heartedly, "So I can go around killing everyone with my powers of _darkness_."

The teenager nods in mock reflectiveness.

"That makes sense."

"It just means," Eleanor cuts in with that sharp voice of hers, "That you, as a magician, manifest your powers in very different ways—ways that can sometimes be fatal to your wellbeing."

Cecelia stifles a yawn, "And?"

"That means you must undertake special training to control these powers to your will."

Cecelia blinks in response.

"Can't I just go to Grendel for this, uh…" she makes air quotations, "'_Special_' training?"

Eleanor shakes her head.

"Sweetheart," she says lightly, touching her shoulder, "You'll be executed on the spot. Trust me on this—that's not good for anyone."

Cecelia slaps her hand away in an act of defiance.

"The hell?"

"There's a reason as to why dark magic isn't widespread since the reign of Noirahtlen, you know."

She raises an eyebrow.

"The Black Mage," Eleanor enunciates.

"Ah."

The older woman gives an exasperated sigh, "Ever since he fell out of power, nobody knows him as more than that, anyway."

Cecelia's expression still appears blank as a sheet of paper.

"Of course."

"If you don't mind me asking," Eleanor places a hand on her hip, "What sort of magician were you planning on becoming?"

"… I don't really know, to be honest."

Eleanor nods.

"So you have a plan, I see…" she hums, "That's wonderful. You are going to go very far in life, child—I can tell."

"Gh…"

* * *

_"Hey!" Andrew attempts feebly to wipe the soot off his arm, "You did it!"_

_"Did what?" Cecelia spits, genuinely confused._

_He points to the object in his hand, now singed as he himself is._

_"Finally," she mutters, muscles too sore and aching to even try to even so much as smile triumphantly._

_"Now," he hums, "We should get started on magic claw…"_

_Whilst she is grinning like a maniac for the first time in a decade, he looks upon her with those brilliant green eyes sparkling with the same mirth._

_If she is to become a part of the game, then she may as well play…_

'What is there to lose?'

_Cecelia raises her wand, fizzling and crackling with magic as she produces yet another ball of crackling black smoke…_

* * *

"A bishop."

"What?"

"When I was young," she lies through her teeth, fists clenched, "I wanted to become a bishop."

"Oh, Cecelia," Eleanor sneers, "_Cecelia_… That's even _worse_ than not having a plan at all, my dear."

Cecelia furrows her brow.

"What do you mean?" Cecelia begins to reason, "As a bishop, I could easily get into expeditions and earn a lot of money from the loot. People would value my healing powers."

Eleanor lets out a wry laughter,

"Can't you see, girl?" she drawls, "Bishops have but such a little window of opportunity—they can only revive those who are dead."

Cecelia's brow furrows even deeper—what else could you be except for _alive_ or _dead_?

"But what of those who have had their souls flung asunder the depths of time and space—torn, never to be repaired."

"How—"

… Is there really something in between that even the highest of bishops cannot retrieve souls from? Eleanor places a finger over her lips.

"Once you have had a taste of power, Cecelia," she whispers, "You will never be able to go back to standing—_healing_—in the back."

Cecelia recoils, eyes widened.

"Do you want to be trained in the ways of a necromancer?"

Cecelia mutters to herself in awe, "Is this what it's like to become a death eater?"

Eleanor frowns.

"What?"

"U-Um…"

"It's not possible to eat death!" she shrieks, "What _are_ you on about?"

Cecelia takes another step back, clearing her throat.

"I'm not a high enough level to take my second job advancement."

"Ah," Eleanor fishes through her back pocket, "But, Cecelia…"

She pulls out a plastic capsule half-filled with glowering, gloopy pink potion—emanating with nothing that can be mistaken for anything other than pure power.

"Do you know what this is, Cecelia?"

The stench of it empowers her, as she wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"Th-That…" her eyes widen, as she plugs her nose.

Bile finds its way to her mouth.

'_That's why the spaghetti tasted like plastic!_'

Cecelia clutches at her throat, hunching over as she gags.

"There is enough in here to get to level thirty," she snaps her fingers, "Like _that_."

"You're trying to poison me!"

"No, no," she says airily, "It'll just make you more powerful, that's all."

"Why the hell would you spike my food?"

"That's not the point—"

"Did you feed this stuff to Reina?"

Eleanor blinks, "I'm sorry?"

"Don't act like you don't know what you're talking about," she points at her accusingly, "You piece of _shit_!"

Eleanor takes hold of her wrist with a clasp that threatens to break all of her bones,

"Is _that_ how you talk to your superiors, Cecelia?" she hisses.

Cecelia feels her teeth clenching into a grimace, as those gritty nails of hers dig into her own soft skin, as she snarls, "_Let me go._"

"I have power, Cecelia," Eleanor scoffs, "So much of it that I could break all of your bones with the click of a finger."

She pulls her in closer with an unexplained maniacal glint in her eye, as the darkest of grins stretches across her sharp features.

"Would you like me to demonstrate?"

* * *

Clad in a scratchy dark teal bathrobe trimmed with gold, the little puppeteer attempts feebly, once more, with a damp white towel in his hand, to dry that mop of untamed green hair sitting atop his head.

"Stupid Eleanor won't buy a new hairdryer," he mutters.

Maybe he should get his hair thinned—finding out the hard way that leaving your thick hair to air-dry overnight gives you headaches was certainly _not_ fun…

"**_Francis._**"

His eyes widen at the sound of the enigmatic voice emanating through the steamed room.

"**_Francis…_**"

It repeats, this time with more conviction—impatience laces its voice.

"**_Don't run away from me this time, Francis._**"

The young boy lets out a shuddering breath, as he makes his way to the bathroom door, steps careful as the voice grows louder, more mocking.

An unfathomable force clasps down on his shoulder; from the sound of his, or her—or _its_—dark laughter, unwilling to let go.

"**_You can't get away from me!_**"

Francis whimpers, as his heels drag along the cold linoleum—_skid, skid_—until he is propped up against the bathroom wall, as he stares, in horror, into the mirror before him.

That reflection, and those scarlet red eyes, they are not his own.

"**_It has been so long since we last talked, Francis._**" It finally takes it upon itself to utter, "**_Why won't you stay back and have a chat?_**"

Francis, try as he may, keeps the edge of his words sharp, his tightened jaw and hardened gaze not revealing the slightest bit of fear.

"Wh-What do you want with me?"

Though the deep breaths he takes—in, out; _in, out_—say otherwise.

"**_It's been a long time since I last visited you,_**" the maniacal boy reveals a set of sharp fangs as he stretches his mouth into a toothy grin, "**_That's all._**"

Francis covers his ears in pathetic attempt to block him out, turning toward the wall.

"Go away!" he cries out.

Although his ears are blocked, the laughter—one of cruelty—still rings, stinging, in his ears, his voice taking over his mind…

"**_You're pathetic, truly, you are._**"

"You're not really here to _just_ talk to me," Francis cringes, "Are you?"

"**_Nope,_**" he says flippantly, crossing his arms.

Turning around, steps still light, "**_I'm feeling kind today,_**" he yawns, "**_So I'm going to send you a warning, of sorts._**"

"Of what?"

"**_I suggest you start writing your will as soon as possible._**"

Francis's eyes widen.

"H-Huh?"

"**_Not that you have anything to give away other than those _****stupid****_ dolls of yours._**"

The little boy's mouth gapes open.

"W-Wait…" he stammers, "Are you…"

"**_Don't bother trying to stop me—or _****him****_, for that matter. It is inevitable._**"

'_Eleanor says I see things,_' he decides, taking in a deep breath.

Francis finds tears prickling at his eyes, as he points a trembling, accusatory finger at him.

"You're bluffing," he declares, "You are!"

The edges of his vision are stained a stark crimson, as François lets out a malicious laughter.

* * *

The teenager gulps.

"… No."

Eleanor lets go of her hand, droplets of blood where she dug her nails so intensely into her pale skin.

"Then would you like this power to yourself?"

"I'll think abou—"

Eleanor raises her hand, "One."

"W-Wait…"

* * *

_Her nose wrinkles in disgust, while, at the same time, a sadistic smile adorns her purple lips._

_"I have power, Cecelia…"_

* * *

A strange purple glow encapsulates Cecelia's ankles now, and, try as she may, she cannot pull away—the very forces of gravity are going against her…

* * *

"_… So much of it that I could break all of your bones with the click of a finger!"_

* * *

Eleanor smirks, as she pinches her fingers together with a derisive smirk.

"Two."

"N-No…"

Cecelia's muscles seize, as her hands are balled into fists—she waits for the sickening '_crack!_' to sound in her ears, and for the pained wail to escape her lips.

The mental image of her crumbling to the floor within an inch of her life, limbs jutting out at unnatural angles makes her brow twitch, as she shuts her eyes tight.

_Click_.

* * *

**_"Would you like me to demonstrate?"_**

* * *

"**_Hahahaha…_**"

Feeling his heart drop down to his stomach, Francis feels bile rise from his throat.

"**_Do you see this, Francis?_**"

The red pools at his feet, spreading in streams along the linoleum—dots of red trim pasty tiled walls…

"**_This is you when I'm done with you._**"

Francis clenches his fists, as he steps forward, his feet making a small 'plish' sound as he steps through the puddle.

"Go away!" he shrieks, "You don't exist! Eleanor says so!"

The mirror trembles under his impact.

"**_You can sure pack a punch, kid._**"

_Smash!_

_Crunch!_

"**_Let's see how you face _****death****_ with nothing but brute force!_**"

His teeth are gritted, as he takes no regard of the red seeping out of him, but to no avail.

"Die!"

_Crack!_

Warm, salty droplets of blood trickle down his arm—though his eyes are widened, he cannot see beyond those deep red eyes of his, in the shards all over the floor, full of foreboding and menace.

"… **_You can't kill me._**"

That is the last whisper that leaves his lips, curved into a malicious smirk, before his image dissipates into thin air, leaving nothing but fragments, glowering silver under the fluorescent lights.

That is the last thing that Francis hears, before he crumbles to his knees, glancing at his hands with racing pulse, and widened eyes.

"I'm only seeing things, she says."

* * *

"_Three._"

And, suddenly, it dissipates.

No screams.

No cracks.

Cecelia cracks open her eyes to inspect the damage, as she stretches her arm out.

Not even a single scratch.

"Wh-What…"

"By the power of the Black Mage…"

Eleanor intones with such dramatic flair that it makes the teenager mentally cringe, "You are now a practitioner of black magic."

Eleanor waves her off, as Cecelia simply stares at the palms of her hands in bemusement—what has changed about her, this time?

"I should inform you that, when you practice your magic, there is every chance that the spells you use may backfire—rendering you useless at practicing magic at all."

Cecelia's mouth gapes open, as Eleanor gently places her hand on her shoulder.

"It is a difficult art to master—in fact, I am one of the few people in the world who is able to manipulate these powers at will," she smirks triumphantly, "But off to bed now, darling. We shall resume _actual _training tomorrow."

And, as she is ushered out of the doors with nothing more than those final words, Cecelia gulps.

* * *

"Am _really_ I only seeing things?"

He shivers—whether it is because he is sitting on cold, wet tiles, or something else entirely, he doesn't care enough to know.

Francis hugs his knees to his chest, as tears stream down his face, as he reaches out a hand to touch the shards, watching in morbid fascination as a single drop of blood trails from the tip of his finger to the heart of his palm…

The pain.

The fear.

The _anguish_.

"… Why do they seem so real, then, Eleanor?"

* * *

Though there are eye bags and eye shadows evident under those droopy lids of hers, and although even so much as the gritty, bloodied floor of the training hall looks like a suitable bed…

Cecelia tremors uncontrollably, eyes widened, under the assumption that those tears stinging in her eyes are because of the countless yawns she has stifled.

Although Cecelia is weary, she will not sleep well tonight.


	19. Eternity

**Chapter 19: Eternity**

_Smash._

_Smash._

Knuckles white, as she clasps on to her staff, Oz glares at the glass with eyes determined—its silver shoon sparkles, as though mocking her.

_Smash._

There is a small crack—not but a dent—in the barrier, as a triumphant—mocking—smile creeps up her lips.

"I'm almost there," she whispers to nobody in particular.

Oz, for the first time in a long time, gives a smile filled with hope, as she swings her staff over her shoulder. It's not much, but it's something.

_Smash._

_Smash…_

Eyes glowering a low shade of light orange, as is her staff, infused with the blaze of her mana, she grits her teeth as the silver of the barrier begins to dissipate—an ominous wind blows, as his fur-lined cape billows out.

Oz grimaces as she holds back her tears.

"Eckhart…"

He holds his hand out, using his other hand to pull away his mask ever so slightly.

_Smash._

_Smash!_

The shards of glass patter down like rain, glowering in all their magical glory before they are dispersed into thin air.

And, like the barrier in between then, the rest of the world begins to shatter—the canopies of the dark green trees, the dewy grasses, the eternal blue sky and those pillars made of marble and gold leaf holding up the Knight's Stronghold.

Oz shuts her eyes as they all give way to a blinding white, bright and brilliant.

"Open your eyes."

His voice echoes through the space, his arm still outstretched.

"It's just us, Oz."

Her eyes flutter open, squinting as her eyes adjust to the bright light, as he staff falls to—what would have been—the floor with a clatter.

And there, he stands, with that chaste, cool—yet heart-warming—smirk playing on this lips, his mask also falling to the ground.

"Just—"

Even before he can realise, her tears drench his shoulders—he is pulled into a too-tight embrace.

"… Oz?"

"E-Eckhart…"

He pulls his arm out from her—surprisingly crushing, given her stature and their height difference—hug, as he strokes her back.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

Oz pulls away, a fond smile gracing her lips, wiping away tears with those arm warmers.

Eckhart returns her smile, though his eyes are mirthless—hidden behind the feigned sparkle, there is a profound sadness than even Cygnus or Shinsoo cannot fathom.

Though he is only two or three years her senior, his eyes say otherwise.

"What happened, Eckhart?"

To this, he gives a frown, "What do you mean 'what happened?'"

"Take me with you."

His eyes widen—her fingers are cold against his cheek.

"I'm sorry I never met up with you when you left."

Eckhart is silent.

"I'm sorry that we never got to say goodbye. Even after so many years." She mentally cringes at the thought, her nails digging into her skin as she balls her hands into fists, "I didn't say goodbye, did I? How could I?"

Oz grinds her teeth, as she attempts to stop the tears.

'_How _dare_ I?_'

"What are you trying to tell me?"

So typical of him—_'how unbecoming_,' Oz would have sneered.

"Eckhart," Oz gulps, her eyes sparkling with determination, as she gazes up at him.

_Ba-thump, ba-thump._

'_Breathe, Oz,' _she tries to tell herself, '_Breathe in…_'

_In, two, three, four, five…_

Her eyes are widened, as he begins to slip past her fingers, fragments of him—and the memories they shared—breaking away like grains of sand falling through her fingers, dispersing into thin air.

_Hold, two, three, four, five…_

There is no time now.

_Out, two, three, four—_

"Eckhart, don't go!"

She clutches at his arm uselessly, as though grasping at fistfuls of the smithereens would bind him to her forever, tears streaming down her cheeks as she hugs the last of what is tangible:

"I'm sorry—"

His fragmented features give a small, wistful smile, as he embraces her back.

"Don't be sorry for anything, Oz."

And, as the last of him is whisked away into the blank white of nothingness, she swears she can hear him whisper a small '_thank you_'…

"_Eckhart!_"

* * *

It is the dead of night when Oz wakes up with a start, panting and huffing; she clutches at her hear to calm her still-beating heart.

Her fluffy pink nightrobe sticks to her now-wet back, her forehead also drenched in cold sweat—meanwhile, her eyes are drenched with salty tears.

She sits up straight, glancing desperately around the room, as she calls out in a whisper-shout.

"_Eckhart?_"

Alas, tears threaten to leave her eyes, she bites at her lip, nails digging into soft skin.

"… Eckhart…"

She brings her knees to her forehead, as her lip quivers.

* * *

_The quill threatens to snap in her fingers, the ink bleeding out into the textbook—her voice darkens to a hoarse whisper._

"_It's because I never loved him back."_

_The droplets that dribble onto the parchment are not ink blots._

* * *

"… I'm so sorry that I lied."

Silently thankful that the rest of the Knights were heavy sleepers—accustomed to Hawkeye's tendency to snore like an asthmatic trucker—tears stain Oz's lap, as she weeps,

'_I'm sorry that I never, ever got to say that I…'_

* * *

"… **_It is all going according to plan, yes?_**"

He kneels at the foot of the gate the man sits atop of, a mass of swirling bright blue light emanating from the other side—what is that power which emanates so strongly from that gate?

Looking up to the man with the broken eyes, face, hands and smile, the black-haired boy cannot help but raise an eyebrow.

"My cover's been blown," he says, "Now I can only hope that it goes all according to plan if I leave her to her own devices."

Asmodius raises an eyebrow.

"**_So soon?_**" he says airily.

"Unfortunately so, Lord Asmodius."

The older man hums.

"**_Such a shame._**"

The boy bows his head, unable to meet his gaze.

"**_At least you have fulfilled your part of the scheme,_**" he shrugs, "**_The clues François set should be obvious enough so that a girl as dim-witted as _****her****_ will perform actions that fall perfectly into this scheme._**"

"And if she doesn't?"

A long pause stretches between them.

"**_It all boils down to François, then._**"

He raises his hands, bony claw-liked fingers exposed from underneath the tattered black robe—clawed fingers, with purple strings attached.

"**_Remember._**"

He moves his right hand up, as he floats above the ground, eyes widened.

"**_You have signed a contract with me,_**" he intones, "**_And, therefore, you are the puppet to the play I have written. You are a mere instrument to my plans._**"

The lavender strings glower ever so slightly, as he is gently set on the ground once more—his work is not done yet.

"**_You can't see the strings,_**" he says, "**_But they're like the red thread of fate. It can be tangled, it can stretch to the other ends of the universe, but they can't be broken until I say they can be._**"

The strings dissipate, though the boy can still feel the strings under his skin—his actions, his words, are not his own.

"**_The choice between attaining what you desire,_**" Asmodius narrows his eyes, "**_Or whether I fling your soul into the alter dimensions, never to be retrieved… It is the choice between following my orders or disobeying me._**"

The boy's brilliant green eyes flash purple for a split second, as he turns away.

"I'll never disobey you, Master Asmodius."

The man chuckles half-heartedly, "**_It seems that you do not have much of a choice,_**" Asmodius says pointedly,"**_Lefeuvre._**"

The priest freezes mid-step, expression blank as he glances over his shoulder to peer at him.

"Don't call me by that name."

Asmodius smirks, as the boy raises his wand in answer, muttering in an abstract tongue as orange arcane symbols surround his ducky tube.

"**_Why not?_**"

He does not look back—does not answer—as he steps through the magic door, shutting his eyes.

'_That is not the name I go by in this world._'

* * *

Arm bundled with undergarments, toiletries and a somewhat clean change of clothes, the mage rubs his eye with his free hand, as he saunters down the corridor.

The lock of the door set to the too-bright red 'occupied' piques his eyes.

"How in the…" he mutters groggily, running a hand through his hair, "Who the hell gets up so early to take a shower?"

Baroq reaches a hand forward to tug on the door.

Before his thoughts stray to why _he_ gets up so early to take his own morning shower, he tries the door—still occupied.

_Knock, knock!_

"_Hey_!"

He tugs at the door once again, though gently so as to not break the door—knowing the budget Orca puts them all under: she wouldn't care enough to replace a toiler lock—but to no avail.

"Anyone in there?"

When he is met by silence—neither a single running faucet, nor the sounds of ruffling clothes—he presses his ear towards the door, brow furrowed.

The walls are paper-thin…

Why can't he hear anything?

"B-Baroq?"

The voice that drifts from the other side of the door sounds like that of a mouse, not an obnoxious ten year-old boy.

"Is that you?"

His eyes widen.

"I thought we made a deal, Francis," Baroq frowns, "You said you'd take your shower last night…"

He is met with silence once more.

"What are you doing in there?" he questions, "Hey, were you in there all night?"

He hears a tiny squeal sound from the other side of the room.

_Knock, knock._

"Open the door."

Finally, the lock twists into green, to reveal a set of fearful hazel eyes adorned with eye shadows, his hands clawing at the edge of the door as he hides behind it—painted maroon.

Baroq bends down to inspect the damage.

"What happened to your hands?"

He takes his bony fingers into his own for but a few seconds, incredulous as ever, before Francis pulls away.

"Nothing."

Baroq stands up, as he pulls the door wide open—flecks of red in the sink, and maroon on the floor, is the first thing that meets his eye.

"What happened in here?"

Francis bites his lip.

"He's after me," he says, "They all are."

Baroq raises an eyebrow.

"Who are '_they_'?"

"People," he answers starkly, "They're after me."

The older man purses his lips, as he clamps his hands down on to the boy's shoulders, rubbing them as soothingly as possible.

"Who are these people?" he repeats softer, slower.

"The boy that looks like me," he answers, "That one with the red eyes and the sharp teeth: he says he's after me."

Baroq's eyes scan over the small bathroom, tiny shards of translucent silver almost blending into the off-white floor.

"Why is the mirror broken, Francis?"

"He was in the mirror," he explains, "So I broke it so that he would go away."

Baroq opens his mouth to speak, but no words escape his lips.

How can he convince someone like him that this boy—the one that eats away at his dreams, takes on the appearance of his dolls, and possesses bathroom mirror—simply does not exist?

The burly man sighs. Maybe he does exist—perhaps, in Francis' world, he does. But nobody lives in Francis' world except Francis, and Francis alone.

"Is he gone now?" he asks.

Francis gives a sharp nod.

"Where do you think he's gone?"

The puppeteer appears downtrodden, "He'll come back. I know it."

Baroq stands up, as he takes his hand in his, careful to not step on mirror shards as he places his clothes, toothbrush and washcloth on the counter.

"Don't worry about it, he won't come back for a while," he convinces him, looking down to his hand, still raw, "But, for now, we need to get some bandages on your knuckles."

And, as a small, relieved smile graces Francis' lips, Baroq can feel his own lips curve downwards.

"There's nothing in the infirmary, now, last time Eleanor checked," he mutters to himself in frail attempt to keep his thoughts from going astray, "She said there's a first aid kid in her office."

What's trapped him in this strange fantasy world where there are dastardly little boys out for his head, and where those skeletal dolls in his room can _talk_?

His jaw tightens.

'… _What _happened_ to you, Francis?_'

The question remains unanswered as the pitter-patter of their steps sound through the dark, dank corridor.

* * *

He gazes at the spot where the door dissipated. If he peered close enough at the crack in the door, he could see the blinding light of the sun, the fluorescent block buildings…

The gust of fresh air—no matter how little it was—that blew through the door had never tasted sweeter.

'_How long has it been,_' he wonders, '_Since I have seen the outside world?_'

How have things changed?

How has _she_ changed?

"What are you thinking about?"

The deformed shadow that was once a man—if he could even had the right to be called such—is snapped out of his thoughts, head leaning against his hand.

"**_What are _****you****_ smiling about?_**"

The green-haired demon grins wickedly as he stows the glowering vial in his pocket, holding a sheet of paper between his thumb and index finger.

"Nothing at all, Asmodius."

He lets out an annoyed grunt, echoing through the vast room—save for the constant buzz of the gate and the occasional cry of a death teddy from the other side of the wall, his voice is the only thing to fill the void.

"**_That's_**** Lord ****_Asmodius to you,_**" he mutters, "**_And you shall pay dearly if this doesn't all go according to your stupid little plan._**"

"Trust me, _Lord_ Asmodius," he says with a sneer on his lips, "I'm two steps ahead of you."

Unconvinced, as he always is, the man—if he can even be called such—simply gives a scoff.

"**_You _****better****_ be. The other one has fulfilled his mission—I'm waiting to see if you can do the same._**"

François simply gives a laugh, as a golden stone, with a dragon engraved in it, is tossed to him so carelessly.

"**_Don't take too long. This _****is****_ only the first part of my plan._**"

Without even so much as a flinch, he takes it in his grasp.

'… _Finally,_' his red eyes are glowering, '_I will return to my true form._'

He saunters out of the clock tower, laughter still on his lips—though he must cover his eyes to shield his eyes from the too-bright Ludibrium sun—as he traces his finger over the dragon engraved in the teleport rock.

"… To Ellinia."

How have the things, the people and the places he has known and loved changed in the past only-Goddess-know-how-long?

And, engulfed in a brilliant zap of light, François is gone.

'_I suppose I will find out soon._'

* * *

Hersha, giving a childish wink, places his index finger over his lips.

'Search the entire library,' he mouths at her, as he clasps on to the door knob, slamming it shut before him.

Casmilia simply blinks, as she stares up at the looming shelves, stretching high into the skies of the library, she lets out a loud groan.

"Hersha…"

The teenager begins to ascend the ladder with a scowl on her face, plucking books from their shelves and flipping through them for something, _any_thing.

"… You better hold off Grendel for the next four hours."

* * *

Cecelia's eye twitches, "Isn't this _your_ job, Le Tierre?"

"I'm a _secretary_," she says, handing her a rather thick folder, "Not a _maid_."

Cecelia unblinkingly stares daggers into Le Tierre, who ignores her.

"And this, here," she hands it over to her, "Is the broom you need to complete your mission."

"And this…"

Cecelia snatches the broom, eyes still glowering with rage, not caring enough to examine it before flinging it over to Reina.

"… Is _bullshit_!"

"It's a very serious mission," Le Tierre picks at her nails, "You have to write a report on it, as a matter of fact."

Reina steps forward with a frown.

"Why is it that we have been asked to _clean his room_ as a mission?" She blinks, "There is a mission folder, as well. How is this mission serious enough to need to write a report on it?"

"Shut up, Reina," Cecelia sighs, "It's better than going out to kill someone—or operating the gas chambers. Or something else really dodgy that we won't ever want to do, like killing someone."

'_We're in Edelstein,_' her inner-self mutters dryly, '_not Nazi Germany._'

Reina shudders at the very thought of it, as she steps back, curiosity still lingering in her eyes.

"Then why are _you_ complaining as well, Cecelia?"

The auburn-haired assistant clears her throat.

"Look, Francis's room is at the end of the hall there, near the recreational room." She points to a ratty-looking wooden door embedded in the wall, "There. Go there now and complete your mission—"

"What the hell _is_ your job anyway?" Cecelia interjects, "What _do_ you do as a secretary?"

The young woman appears shell-shocked upon the utterance this question. Even so, she sighs exasperatedly as she says so breathily.

"My job," she begins, "Is to take care of the administrative stuff for my bosses—Orca, Eleanor, Guwaru…"

She laughs nervously, as she continues on, as she leans against her front desk.

"Okay, _okay,_" she rolls her eyes, "I might say administrative, but it's really just petty stuff—folding clothes, delivering papers, preparing tea, looking after pets…"

"Cleaning Francis' room, maybe?" Cecelia adds.

Defeated, the auburn-haired woman lets out an exasperated sigh.

"The pay's really good, though—then again, all jobs in the Black Wings hideout _have_ to have high pay, otherwise nobody would be here at all…"

Cecelia frowns, believing it best to ignore the last part of what she said, "Is this just your way of bullshitting us into doing your job for you?"

"Eleanor told me to get you two to do something, since you need to prove yourselves as trainees. Aside from that, I can't really handle this job myself—"

"So Eleanor assigned us this mission?"

Le Tierre nods.

Cecelia, arms crossed, glances around the lobby, "Where _is_ Francis anyway?"

The secretary shrugs, before she hides back behind her desk, tapping away at that keyboard.

"With Eleanor and Baroq, if I remember correctly."

Reina blinks, eyes widened.

"What?" she questions, "Why's that? Where are Eleanor and Baroq?"

"I don't want to have to clean up his room myself, girls. Let's just say that he's out of business, and his puppets have gone haywire—you look strong enough."

"But—" Reina squeals.

Cecelia clasps on to the edge of her tattered sleeve.

"Who cares where he is, anyway? The twerp—how hard can it be to sweep up a few puppets?"

Le Tierre laughs nervously, scratching the back of her head.

"Did s-something happen to him?" Reina stammers, "What's going on?"

Cecelia freezes, swirling around on her heel to give her a glance. Coyly, Reina looks away as she fiddles with her thumbs.

"Look at me, Reina."

The petite teenager looks up to the older girl, as she holds out her palm.

"Do you see this?" she asks, a derisive smirk creeping up her face.

Reina peers in closer, eyes narrowed.

"See what?"

"This is how many shits I give."

"What the—"

Cecelia, with breakneck speed—even before Reina can so much as process what had just happened—clasps on to the edge of her laced silken sleeve.

"Cleaning his room can't be _that_ bad, Reina," she mutters, as she approaches the door, "He seems like the meticulous type—y'know, being batty and everything."

_Scratch…_

_Click…_

Cecelia's hand tremors, as her hand looms over the door handle.

"It can't be that bad," Reina mocks.

They are met with a thousand pairs of glowering eyes, and an eerie chorus of clicking, as Cecelia pushes open the door, a bead of cold sweat rolling down her forehead.

_Slam!_

The door is shut once more, as Cecelia, eyes widened, leans up against the door, reaching in to her pocket.

_Scratch…_

_Click…_

"Hold onto that thing tight, Reina."

She clasps on to door handle, knuckles growing white as she tries her best to not let the wand slip out of her hand, now slick with sweat.

"We'll need a hell of a lot more than a _broom_ to clean this shit up."

* * *

Panting, as she clutches at her sides, she attempts to brush her now soaked hair from her sticky forehead.

Hersha appears to give a nervous laughter, as he shoots the thunder breaker a vexed glare.

'Any luck?' is what the tiredness in his dull eyes screams at her.

Casmilia shakes her head, as Hersha turns back around wordlessly, a mirthless grin hanging off his lips.

Conversation topics are dwindling away, anyone can see, and Casmilia has to act, _fast_.

Four hours.

Within that time frame, Casmilia has scourged every single shelf, cracked open every single book—or, rather, flipped through it, eyes glazing over at the mass amounts of text that, even with the assistance of a magnifying glass, appeared as though an ant had simply dipped its feet in ink and trailed across the yellowing pages in perfectly neat little rows.

Four _whole_ hours… How does someone even _talk_ for that long? Casmilia shudders, as she walks to the other side of the room.

The _one_ book—the tome with loose sheets of paper sticking out of it, lying upon a wooden crate…

As she approaches, she sights, behind the large tome, a sparkle, dark crimson like blood, sparkling from the shadows.

She gasps.

"It took you long enough!"

Casmilia's mouth gapes open.

"Pu-Puppeteer…" she sputters rather uselessly.

He stands up, giving a small stretch—the sunlight streaming through the window of the library caught in his forest green hair.

"Is that all you have to offer?"

Casmilia grits her teeth, fist clenched, as she takes on her battle stance—eyes hardened with determination, her fists are placed defensively in front of her.

"What are your plans?"

The little boy, nearly a head shorter than her—a seemingly impossible feat, to be shorter than _Casmilia_, of all people—looks up with a heinous grin.

"I am here to deliver a message."

_Crackle._

_Fizz._

"You're lying."

"I saw him."

Casmilia narrows her eyes.

"Who?"

"That boy who accompanies you. The one with the green eyes, duck cap, ducky tube—a joke of a weapon…"

He smirks derisively, as though in a little reverie.

"The bastard that can't even put on a shirt, Andrew…"

The lightning emanating from her fists fizzles down—Casmilia gives a frown.

"What about him?"

He grins—is this really going to work? Surely, a girl her age cannot be _this_ stupid, _this_ illogical…

"I have a knack for sensing how people feel about others—but anyone, even those without these abilities, can tell."

'_You fool._'

Her cheeks are flushed.

"How do you know—"

He raises his index finger, eyes fixated on hers—is it that eerie glow that captivates her, or something else? Like magic, perhaps?

"And I also sense that Andrew detests you."

Casmilia inhales sharply.

"Do you know the reason, knight," he intones, tilting his head to the side, "As to why he dislikes you so?"

She grimaces, as her stomach takes an unpleasant turn. What was it that he hated so much about her? He looks at her with such contempt, such annoyance, for she is a mere child…

"He doesn't dislike _only_ me," she spits, "He hates everyone—Andrew thinks he's better than everybody. That's just the kind of person he is."

The boy places his hands behind his back, feigning innocence, tilting his head to the side so that his hair touches the tip of his shoulder.

"Ungh…"

"You're lying," he declares brutishly, "You're writhing in pain under my magic."

"A-Am…" She says, although her voice is strained, expression contorted, "I am not…"

"The spell I've casted over you," he says, "It makes you suffer punishment for lying—you suffer pain for uttering falsities."

"But I wasn't lying about that," she pants, "It's the truth. Andrew doesn't like anyone–"

Casmilia doubles over, clutching at her stomach desperately.

"But it's not the _whole_ truth," he smiles, "That's what you are—a hypocrite; a Cygnus Knight."

She narrows her eyes at him, teeth grinding.

"You, like all of them, will believe anything your little queen will tell you. You do not seek the truth—you are only happy with the falsities written in those textbooks you studied, because that's all you know. That's all you'll ever know in this lifetime; lies."

"They are written by Cygnus herself—"

"Ah," he nods his head, "They are, but is Cygnus the truth?"

Casmilia's eyes widen.

"You can't honestly believe everything this benevolent queen says to you. She may be ruler of the Maple World—but how competent is she, to be sleeping within the wings of the great bird, which protect _her_and _her_ only?"

The thunder breaker's throat becomes parched, "I-I…"

"That is why he will never like you."

"What are you saying—"

"Because you know nothing," he points an accusing finger at her, in all seriousness, "It is because you lack knowledge, of life, of _everything_ and _everyone_ around you, that he dislikes you so much."

"You can't have come here to just tell me that the person who I love—"

"You can't love anyone."

"What makes you say _that_?"

"You're twelve," he replies, "You just proved my point."

"You're _younger than me_," is her retort, "I just disproved your point."

"Ah," he raises an eyebrow, "Touché. But I hold more knowledge than you ever will in a lifetime."

He fingers the small vial in his pocket with a smirk on his lips.

'_Asmodius, oh, Asmodius…'_ his grin turns maniacal, _'You shall repay us once more._'

Casmilia frowns in response.

"How?"

He pulls it out—it is a potion, the colour of the sky, entwined with bright, glowering swirls of purple.

"If you drink this," he intones, "Then you shall be all-knowing."

She reaches out to touch the potion, only for François to recoil.

"What _exactly_ is in it?"

The little boy smirks, as she leans forward in anticipation, attempting feebly to stand up on her two feet to retrieve it.

Yes, this is all going according to plan…

"Right here, in this vial, child," he taps the glass, "Is the secret to eternity."

* * *

Francis simply stares down at the scabs where his knuckles should be, as Baroq continues to wordlessly wrap the off-white gauze around his bloodied fingers and hands, Eleanor kneeling by his side.

"What happened, Francis?" she coos, stroking his hair, "Oh, you poor thing, you…"

Francis, expression still blank as a sheet of paper, slaps her hand away without even so much as a glance.

"Don't touch me," he snarls, "Don't even _try_."

Eleanor recoils with a grimace.

"Did he come back again?" she continues to question him, "What did he say this time?"

Francis takes it upon himself to shoot her an icy glare.

"Don't _mock_ me, either."

"I'm not mocking you, I'm just trying to—"

"Don't bother, Eleanor."

Both their heads snap around to sight Baroq—usually silent as ever—tying up those bandages some more.

"If he doesn't want to talk about it, Eleanor," he says gruffly, "Then he doesn't want to talk about it."

They sit in a few seconds of awed silence—whether it's the fact that he stood up for Francis, or the fact that he even spoke at all, nobody knows.

Baroq stays kneeling, admiring his handiwork for even so much as a few seconds, before clearing his throat.

"Eleanor?"

"Yes?"

The wizard rises to his feet, expression still forlorn, glancing over to the older woman.

"Let's talk outside."

Eyes narrowed, she, nevertheless, gives a curt nod, as she makes her way to the door of the infirmary. Baroq turns around to face the puppeteer.

"Francis?"

The little boy blinks, as he looks up to his hooded figure.

"Yes, Pa—"

_Ba-thump_—the burly man's heart just skipped a beat, eyes widening a fraction…

Francis shakes his head.

"Baroq?"

"I-I don't think I heard that right…"

Francis' mouth gapes to form an 'o' shape, as he brings his finger to his lips, cheeks now several shades of red.

Francis grimaces.

"Baroq— I called you Baroq," he answers, giving a nervous laugh. "I was just about to say 'Paroq'. I haven't slept all night, that's all."

"Do you really—"

A pause sits stretches between them.

"You said you'd talk to Eleanor," he shies away from him, "You don't want to keep her waiting. You know what'll happen when she waits for someone."

Stiffly, Baroq ruffles his hair, a smile hanging off his lips. If he couldn't _be_ his father, he may well _act_ like it.

"Get some rest."

Francis gives a small, warm smile as a silent 'thank you', before he pulls himself under the scratchy covers.

* * *

A tear runs down her porcelain cheek, as she clenches her fists.

"Then, if I drink it, and attain knowledge…"

'_Will he love me, then?_'

The small demon simply gives a broad grin, stifling his chuckles as he struggles not to break into crackles of incontrollable laughter.

"That is another problem with you Cygnus Knights."

As she takes a desperate step forward, eyes pleading, François takes a step back.

"What now?" she hisses, as she reaches for it—just out of reach, the potion is. He looks upon her derisively, shaking his head. Does this girl _genuinely_ believe everything that is told to her?

"You believe you will get these sorts of things so easily—knowledge, power, fame, wealth…"

In breakneck speed, her yearning eyes watch on in horror, as his lithe form clambers up onto the wooden chest, the old wood threatening to splinter under his weight.

With one last smirk, he stows the potion back into his pocket.

"But, for the best things, you must fight!"

As he raises his arm with a deranged smirk, laughing, Casmilia lunges forward.

"W-Wait!"

* * *

"_This _will_ indefinitely work, you say?"_

_François nods in answer._

"_This_ will _work."_

"_You better be right about that, then," he turns around to narrow his eyes at him, "I want a chance to see my sister again."_

"_Even if only once?"_

"_That's all I ask."_

* * *

'_You needn't worry,_' he shuts his eyes, '_This task was a lot easier than I'd anticipated._'

And, with that broad grin still spread across his features, his red eyes brimmed with sadistic merriment, he disappears within the plumes of smoke.

The pain is alleviated, as she pulls herself up.

"Who the heck do you think you are?" she screeches.

Her cries remain unanswered, as she is only met with the small squeals of mushrooms, those plastic grins forever plastered onto their faces.

_Crackle._

_Fizz._

Energy begins to crackle at her fingertips, at the edge of her toes… Adrenaline, or so it is called—maybe that much is a lie written in those textbooks, too.

"_Straight_!"

She will never find out the truth, unless…

'_If you say so, puppeteer…_'

Casmilia digs her fist into the first unfortunate mushroom—it gives one last, pained squeak '_kyu_' before it dissipates into thin air.

'_Then, for the best things…_'

She wipes the sweat away from her brow, as she dances in the flurry of lightning—her fists flashing, crackles of energy ring shrill through the air.

_Crackle._

_Fizz._

"Kyu!" is the sound of the last mushroom that falls, giving an indignant squeal as it fades into oblivion.

"I will fight."


	20. Please Help Clean Francis' Room!

**Chapter 20**

"I'm sorry."

The chilled winter air bites at his fingertips, numbed with cold, as a sorrowful sigh escapes his parted lips in the form of a small cloud of vapour.

"I never thought I would ever find you here," Eckhart says, a sad smile playing on his lips, looking down at his mask, held loosely in his grasp, "Well, not any time soon."

Silence, then, is what washes over him. It is an eerie silence, knowing all too well that, no matter what he wished, wanted, and hoped for, it wouldn't be filled again.

Eckhart narrows his eyes, the howling of the icy wind whistling past him was almost a screech in cloak billows out, as he kneels down at the headstone.

"We made a promise, didn't we?"

The ominous wind brushing through his hair ceases—'_I'm listening_' is what it tells him.

"We said that, as soon as I could, I'd come back to visit Kerning City."

His chin is tickled by the fine furs that lined his cloak as he bows his head, shutting his eyes.

"I never thought, even for a moment, that I'd never ever see you again."

Lana places a hand on his shoulder.

"Eckhart?"

Eyes still shut, he brings the mask closer to his face.

The mask, he knows, still worn from years upon years of wear and tear, has seen the deaths of many, and has survived many, many wars—even so, it still has not broken. Their legacy would never be shattered.

"I suppose… I never really told you, dad, but…" Eckhart mumbles, speech muffled by the mask held to his lips, "I never deserved to wear this. So, I promised myself that, one day…"

The porcelain of the mask finally meets the icy cold marble surface of the tombstone with a small clack, "I'd give it back."

Even still, he finds himself involuntarily reaching his hand out to run his fingers over the ceramic mask—however smooth it appears, the scratches upon its surface are clearly indented.

While it wasn't, by any means, _broken_, it could hardly serve its purpose to him anymore—now, to him, it only had sentimental value.

Surely, over the years, Eckhart would have fixed it—but he simply couldn't bring himself to defile his father's handiwork.

Each and every single scratch, those little crackles along its edge, even the chipped paint, was a crevice in which memories were held. In those cracks and crevices were memories that he had to cherish; those memories that, in those God-forsaken years in that prison, would otherwise be gone forever.

"Dad," he breathes, "I'm sorry for not for never saying goodbye."

'… _I'm sorry that I never got to thank you._'

A rustle in the leaves overhead, he decided, indicated forgiveness.

"Just wait for me," Eckhart clenches his fist.

'_Just wait._'

"Wait for what?"

Eckhart swirls around on his heel, until his cold gaze meets her green eyes.

"As much as I'd like to stay in Kerning City and stay with you a while longer," he says, "I'm afraid that's impossible."

Lana frowns, as his words are followed by a hearty chuckle.

"What?"

"I've finally met up with you again," he smiles, "I've visited my parents…"

His sigh comes out as a puff of steam, as Eckhart places his hands in his pockets,

"I only have one last thing left to do, now, Lana."

"Well, then, Eckhart," she says, with a smile, patting down on his shoulder, "Make sure you come back, alright? Don't want you gone for too long again. I missed you."

Eckhart mentally cringes, before he lowers his gaze—hopefully, she wouldn't be able to see it in his eyes.

"Lana…"

His ex-instructor tilts his head up with a worried frown.

"What is it?"

His jaw tightens, as he voids his eyes of all emotion—an art he had mastered over the years, stoicism…

"I'm not sure if I'll be coming back or not."

* * *

"_Magic Claw!_"

The clicking and clattering of puppets as their skeletal limbs clash with one another, some of them pushed against—and scratching at—the walls, hollow eyes gleaming an eerie bright gold colour.

Cecelia pants, as she unleashes another spell—there is a faint lilac hint to her magic…

'_Is that it, Eleanor?_'

"Gh…" she grinds her teeth together, a drop of sweat—from fatigue this time, instead of fear—dribbles down her temple.

'_A purple magic claw?_'

Perhaps this whole 'dark magic' thing wasn't worth losing sleep over, after all.

"Don't scare me like that, Eleanor!" she fires off another energy bolt towards an incoming puppet—it sustains not even so much as a scratch.

"Is Eleanor the name of your other self?"

Cecelia narrows her eyes, attempting to kick off the puppet climbing up her leg.

"Reina, I have no time for questions right now," she grunts, "I'm in a bit of a rut here."

Reina swipes it off with all her might with the broom, as it flies off into the wall.

"… That should do it."

Cecelia stares as it gives off one last eerie 'click', before the glowering of its eyes dissipate, leaving only black hollows for eyes.

Her knuckles are white from the grip she uses to hold on to her wand, swallowing as the adrenaline rushes to her fingertips.

'_One down…_'

She takes on a mock battle stance, as another wave of puppets approach, their faces permanently fixated into scowls, as they slowly, _slowly_ saunter forward.

"_Magic claw_!" is what she casts, as three puppets recoil under her power.

Over at the other side of the room, she can see nearly one-hundred pairs of glowering eyes hiding in the corner.

'_So that's their strategy, huh?_' inner-Cecelia muses.

Ignoring the voice, Cecelia pants as she watches Reina crush them to the wall with amazing agility.

For the first time out of many times that she will have to, Cecelia obliterates the puppets writhing under Reina's grasp.

'… _Eighty-nine to go._'

* * *

Baroq lets out a small sigh, as the small 'click' of the door behind him sounds—before him, is the Black Witch.

"Couldn't have taken long enough, Baroq," she peers at her nails—a habit even the years could never get rid of, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

That semi-smile subconsciously hanging on his lips turns into a scowl.

"What happened last night, that's what."

Eleanor's face, as hard as she tries to drain all emotion out of it, yields pain.

"Is this to do with Francis seeing things?"

"It's not normal."

Eleanor gives a small sigh—maybe if she didn't think about it too hard…

"We have all gathered that much, Baroq."

"Are you sure he's too young to be on medication? Just look at him, Eleanor."

Eleanor mentally cringes as he flings his arms towards the door in a dramatic gesture of desperation.

"It's destroying him."

"No pills will ever get rid of what he sees—because it is really there. Perhaps it's us that just can't see it."

"The definition of that is a hallucination," he says, "Only Francis so firmly believes it is real—"

"Because he sees things that other people can't," Eleanor finishes for him, "It is a gift, not a vice."

Baroq simply blinks at her nonsensical explanation,

"So this entire time, your excuse was that he is too young to go on medication?"

"You would not have made any sense of what I said, if I explained this to you earlier."

'_You're so…_' he inhales sharply, clenching his fists.

"Eleanor…"

"How can you be a practitioner of magic," she interjects, "If you can't even pretend to believe in this?"

Eleanor mentally cringes for what is about to come.

"Because it's madness!" he cries.

Eleanor's gaze grows dark.

"Always the pragmatist, Baroq," her tone is malicious.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with a sharp sigh.

"Look, I understand how mana is power stored within us that can manifest itself as magic," he says, "But seeing spirits? Bringing people back to life—cheating Goddess, if she even exists?"

He pauses, as though he wants an answer.

"It's not magic, it's lies!" he exclaims, "I haven't even seen you once resurrect a person with your magic!"

Tears prick in Eleanor's eyes.

Balling her hands into fists, she pushes back the flames of rage—and guilt—licking at her heart threatening spill out of her.

'_Believe me, I tried._'

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she finally looks up at him.

"While I have the power to," she says, "I only bring back those whose sins cannot be atoned for in a single lifetime."

Now her voice isn't that of a boisterous, strange woman, but that of the timid, broken girl she once was so long ago. Perhaps the one she still is, donning the mask—the identity—of the Black Witch.

"It's a punishment, to be brought back to life."

The witch tells herself that she hates to be alone. Because when she is alone, she reflects—and remembers.

"It's a punishment she doesn't deserve."

But for that very reason, she hates talking to people: everyone reminds her.

And then she reflects, she remembers.

"A punishment no-one deserves—"

"I'm sorry."

Eleanor's eyes widen, as a long pause—the same kind that has stretched in front of them nearly a thousand times before—sits between them.

"No, Baroq," she finally breaks the silence, "It's just…"

Her mouth is dry.

"I'm denying it," she covers her mouth, looking down, "There _is_ something wrong with Francis."

An apprehensive silence sits between them.

"… Maybe we're all in the wrong, and those things he sees do exist—the rest of us are just blind," Baroq offers, "But we can't take our chances, can we?"

Eleanor shakes her head, letting out a sigh.

"We can't."

They saunter down the corridor as they can hear, through the door, the faint snorts of the puppeteer in her office.

"Coffee?" he lowers his voice to a whisper, eyes suddenly alight—a mask, a falsity.

Looking up at him, Eleanor hits him playfully on the shoulder, the same twinkle in her eye—though hers is genuine.

"Coffee, you say?!" she feigns exasperation.

He lets out a laugh, placing his hands in his pockets.

"Hey, I'll make it for you."

"Nonsense!" she says, "I'd never let you make my coffee ever again. Remember last time? You refused to put anything in it."

They begin to walk down the corridor, "Well, I don't like wine, so bad luck!"

And as their conversations rise from dark depths then fizzle out into lively small-talk and peals of laughter, they—like they once did long ago—are blissfully unaware of their darkness surrounding; happy like the children they once were.

'_… Why can't it always be like this?_'

And, as laughter rises from her throat, tears form in her eyes—for what was, and what never will be.

Before she can clasp on to his hand again, begging herself to believe that it is being held back, he pushes the door open to reveal the bright, pasty white walls of the recreational room.

'_Why can't we be children once more?_'

Before she feels the need to restrain herself, they go back to the monotony of their lives, the breath knocked out of her as the weight of reality caves in.

'_Why can't he have memories of childhood to cherish and to cling on to for years to come, as we once did?_'

The peals of laughter ringing through the hallway are but a distant memory, as she wordlessly sinks on to the couch, a glass of wine in her hand.

* * *

"Eighty-nine…"

Cecelia clenches her teeth, as she swipes her wand once more, muscles aching and throbbing.

Each fizzle of magic, as she casts her array of spells (energy bolt, magic claw, energy bolt…) is progressively weaker than the last. Her eyes widen, as the final puppet approaches—she raises her arm.

"_Magic Claw!_"

The familiar bubble of mana ceases to rise up and tear through the air.

"E-Energy bolt!" she casts desperately, flicking her wand.

Another puppet falls with a clack, as smoke fizzles out with the sound of a screaming banshee.

Reina swirls on her heel to the fallen teenager with a triumphant grin, as she holds out her hand.

"Ninety."

Cecelia gives a grunt—a failed attempt at a tired laugh—as she is pulled up and off the ground, "Shit."

"Wh-What is it?" Reina asks, "You fight well."

'_Yeah,_' her inner self muses, '_You're Asian. That means you should know karate and stuff—not wear raccoon eyeliner, and obliterate things by waving around a metal stick that shoots out light._'

"Shut up."

Reina grimaces.

"I-I actually meant that in a nice way, Cecelia…"

Cecelia looks to the floor, narrowing her eyes.

"This is bullshit."

"S-Sorry?"

"It's stupid, that they're getting us to clean his room," Cecelia shuts one eye, grimacing as she hisses, "Especially since it's so dangerous. Aren't we trainees, or something?"

"How do you think it's dangerous, they don't do anything except walk around very slowly—_Aah!_" she is flung to the wall by a blast of bright yellow light.

Cecelia turns around, though not before grimacing.

"I rest my case," she says dryly as she sees Reina slowly slide down the wall.

Reina, about to shoot her a witty retort, instead, clutches at her chest with widened eyes. A droplet of blood trails down from the corner of her lip.

"N-Not funny, Cecelia."

Cecelia gives a swift kick to the puppet—for her mana sources are depleted, much to her chagrin—which falls apart upon being kicked towards the wall. She frowns at herself, placing her wand in her back pocket.

"Now that makes ninety."

Her inner voice gives a chortle, '_Didn't need to cast magic at all, did you?_'

Her scowl grows deeper. How is it that she has been able to tear down one of these dolls with nothing but a kick?

"Urgh…"

Cecelia, snapped out of her thoughts, kneels by Reina's side.

"Are you OK?"

As Reina heaves herself up, legs wobbling like jelly, she reveals a small, crackling hole in the wall where her back once was. She wipes the blood away with the gauze wrapped around her wrist.

"I would be more concerned about the wall, really."

Cecelia, pushing the infinite clacking of puppets out of her mind for the meanwhile—though _they_ are gone, the memory of them will endure the test of time—as she narrows her eyes as she begins to inspect the damage.

"The hole…"

And, by "inspect", Cecelia means picking away at it until large chunks of it end up being crushed under her fingertips.

"H-Huh?" Reina turns to her, eyes widened.

'_No, no, no…_'

Cecelia turns to the petite teenager, hand outstretched.

"Hand me that broom."

'_N-No…_'

Reina, in spite of her mind's protests, throws the broom over to Cecelia, mind going blank.

"What do you need it for?" she asks.

Cecelia swings it at the wall—_whap!_—as an answer.

'_No!_'

Slowly—_very_ slowly—pieces of the wall begin to fall away, crumbling to the floor in a cloud of dusty plaster, giving way to pitch black.

_Whap! Whap!_

Reina stares on at the sight in bewilderment.

_Whap! Whap! Whap!_

"… What did you do that for?" she stammers, faking unfamiliarity.

**_Crack!_**

Cecelia turns back to her with a smirk.

"It's just like in the movies, Reina."

Reina blinks, as she stares into the hole now embedded into the wall.

"A tunnel?" she tilts her head to the side, "To where?"

Cecelia throws the broom back to Reina with a huff.

"God knows."

Reina's eyes narrow, as she places a finger on her chin in thought.

* * *

_"… Now, we just need an escape route."_

_Reina blinks._

_"Of course we do."_

_Francis lets out a small sigh, as he brushes a hand through his tousled hair, revealing to her those brilliant hazel eyes of his, dulled with contemplation._

_"Reina."_

_She leans forward._

_"Francis?"_

_"I trust you won't tell anyone about this, right?"_

* * *

"But opportunity knocks, Reina," Cecelia looks up at Reina, after she clambers into the hole, "It doesn't beg."

Reina clasps on to her wrist.

"What?" Cecelia frowns.

"How about we leave tomorrow?"

* * *

_"I'll be frank, Reina," Francis bites the tip of his thumb, "I don't want to be here, either."_

_"Then why are you still here?"_

_He shuts his eyes, letting out a sigh._

_"I signed a contract, and swore on my blood that I will remain loyal to this organization for the rest of my life."_

_Reina frowns, "You obviously do not think very highly of this organization, do you?"_

_Francis narrows his eyes, still gnawing on the loose skin hanging off the edge of his thumb._

_"Anyone with half a brain—and a pair of eyes—can see that this all isn't all that it's made out to be."_

_"… What happened to the Black Mage's promise of eternal power upon his revival?"_

_Francis leans in, eyes sharpened._

_"I'll let you in on a secret."_

_"What is it?"_

_"He has already been revived," He growls through gritted teeth, "We just cannot find his whereabouts. As far as many of us are concerned, the Black Mage simply doesn't exist."_

_He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sharp breath._

* * *

"Why?" Cecelia asks in genuine confusion.

Reina lowers her gaze—her jaw tightening, as is the grip on Cecelia's wrist.

"We need to plan this out properly, you see."

Cecelia attempts to break free from her vice-like grip.

"We need to get the fuck out of here."

"We can do that tomorrow, Cecelia."

Cecelia flicks her wrist away with a growl that sounds like that of a wild animal, rather than that of a fifteen year old girl.

"As far as we're concerned, Reina," she grumbles lowly, "There very well may not be a tomorrow!"

Reina clenches her fists.

* * *

_"Eleanor didn't invite you to learn about…" he grimaces, "'Dark magic', did she?"_

_"No…" she raises an eyebrow, "My body isn't compatible with magic, apparently."_

_A twinge of hope lingers in his eyes,_ _"Good."_

_Reina tilts her head to the side._

'Cecelia, though…'

_"Why do you ask?"_

* * *

"We cannot be so rash as to take actions such as this on a whim!" she exclaims, "Only those in the Heavens above know what is at the end of that tunnel! Or if it even _is_ a tunnel at all!"

"We'll end up with those in the _Heavens above_ if we don't do anything."

Reina's face scrunches into a grimace.

"Think about it," she says, "For all we know, this is a trap set up by him! Why would there be a tunnel so easily found in his room, huh? We're talking about the _puppeteer_, here!"

'_Don't go in,_' she almost begs, '_Please._ Please!'

Cecelia grits her teeth.

"Why won't you stop shouting at me?!" she bites back, "Oh my God!"

Cecelia proceeds to attempt to tear all that pretty hair of hers out, with a blood curdling scream to boot, "Shit, I'm stressed out, too!" her voice is coarse, "Don't you want to get out of here?!"

"I do!"

'_Not with you!_' she bites her tongue to hold back these words.

Cecelia's arms flail about in a dramatic display of outrage.

"Then why not _now_?"

* * *

_"Do you know what a servant of the Black Mage looks like, Reina?"_

_"Aren't you a—"_

_"I'm not talking about the humans who serve the Black Mage—as in, the Black Wings."_

_Francis shakes his head, sighing._

_"Goddess, if I was one of those cronies…"_

_"Then what are you talking about?"_

* * *

"Because _you_ aren't a part of the plan!"

Cecelia's scowl, suddenly, is turned from that of anger and rage, to that of shock and bewilderment, as she clambers out of the hole, mouth gaping open.

"… _What_ plan?"

Reina can see the cogs of her mind slowly churning—slowly, slowly, as they string the words together in her mind, put together the pieces…

_Smack!_

Thrown to the floor by the impact, the searing white-hot burn of the pain in her left cheek not settling in until…

"You little shit!"

* * *

_"I'm talking about those whose souls are so warped by pure hatred, and power—so warped, that they don't even take on a human form," he says, "They just don't deserve to."_

_Reina grimaces at the thought._

_"What happens to those people?"_

* * *

If her guttural growl isn't enough indication, then the way her eyes sharpened, lips turned downward, how her teeth look sharper when they grind against one another, and the way she looks absolutely feral, with the strands of hair draping over her eyes—no better than an animal—was more than enough to instil chilling fear into her bones.

"Wh-Wh…" she sputters pathetically, unable to tear away from her gaze.

Reina chokes on her own blood, hunched over as she takes a swift kick to the chest.

"You were going to leave without me?!"

Cecelia's face is as red as a tomato, obviously not expecting an answer—it is all laid out in front of her, now.

Yelling at her, yelling at Eleanor, yelling at Francis, yelling at no-one at all—oh, and to think Reina thought that was the limitation of her anger…

"You stupid piece of…" She hisses, picking her wand out of her pocket out of instinct, "You were going to run off without a word, and leave me to die here in this stinking hellhole!"

Reina's eyes widen, as she witnesses purple strings of mana—or perhaps something else entirely—slowly seeping down to her fingers, like thick liquid.

"C-Cecelia?" her voice is a mere squeak.

The ebony-haired teenager returns the same incredulous expression, as she looks down to her hands—she sees it, feels it.

'_Wh-What the…_'

'**_Game over, sweetheart._**'

It is a burning, a searing, that isn't mana nor rage…

"Wh-What?" Cecelia sputters, "Who are you?"

'**_That isn't any of your business._**'

"_What_ are you—"

It is too late to protest, before Cecelia's eyes roll to the back of her head.

* * *

_"That, Reina," he says, "Is the end product of those who strive to master the art of Black Magic."_

* * *

Cecelia flexes her fingers—her grin, though mirthless, stretches from ear to ear, as the magic that tingles within her is almost painful.

It is a burn through her body, a pain laced with a euphoric undertone—the ecstasy of pure power now flows through her veins and seeps out through her fingertips.

Reina gazes on in fear with her silver eyes brimmed with tears, the glowering crimson in Cecelia's irises locked on to hers.

"**Perfect,**" she—whoever _she_ is—purrs.

A wide grin, one filled with sadistic mirth, stretches across her features as she pins Reina down by her left arm with her heel.

Her fingers glower a dirty lilac, as she chuckles darkly,

"**Yes, this is perfect.**"

* * *

_"Don't become like that."_

* * *

'_Power comes at a price, doesn't it?_' Cecelia glares down at the girl writhing beneath her.

Reina lets out a blood-curdling scream, echoing through the halls, eyes widening from the shock of pain as Cecelia grinds her heel against her arm.

'_A price, yes._'

"C-Cecelia!" she hisses, "S-Stop it!"

Grabbing her by her wrist—the one crushed by her—the purple-eyed girl pulls her up, until Reina is mere inches away from her face.

"**Cecelia, you say?**"

Reina grits her teeth, unable to open her eyes as pure pain washes through her, shrill laughter falling dull on her ears.

"**Who's _Cecelia_?**"

As she is thrown to the ground once more, Reina finds her vision blurring at the edges, the last thing she hears is maniacal laughter before it all fades to black…

* * *

_"You might not think so," Francis rolls up the scroll, before he places it in her hand, "But you still have hope, Reina."_

_"Hope?"_

_The little boy nods with a small smile—full of anticipation, hopefulness, and every genuine happiness, yet dripping with malice, jealousy, greed._

_"You still have hope to escape."_

* * *

"You can stay at my place," she offers, "I have a spare room."

She latches on to his arm, her manicured nails digging into the leather, but to no avail. He continues to trudge forward, hands in his pockets, eyes to the floor.

"Please," She tugs on his arm once more, "You can't just up and leave again, after so long—"

All of a sudden, he whips around, a scowl on his face.

"Why can't you just tell me 'I don't want you to leave'?"

Lana's eyes widen, as no words leave her mouth.

"Is that so hard, Lana?"

Her hand falls away from his arm as he shakes her off.

"I'd intended to do something like this for my entire career in that hellhole," he grumbles, "I'd rather die tomorrow having succeeded in my last mission, rather than live for another one-hundred years having done nothing."

Lana glares at him "You were planning to kill yourself from the very first day you joined them?"

Mentally cringing, Eckhart simply looks ahead—how odd, that he is still able to keep a straight face.

"That's not quite what I meant," he says, "I meant actually do something that means something. Anything."

He turns to her.

"You see, Lana," he says, "Before I die, I want to have succeeded at something."

"Isn't becoming the chief night walker at _your_ age _some_ sort of achievement?" she frowns, "Why is that not enough for you?"

A long pause stretches out between them, as they both gaze out to the dock.

"The world is so beautiful, isn't it?"

"Eckhart—the cynic, the night walker…" Lana frowns, "Eckhart, you're acting strange. You'd _never_ kill yourself for the sake of anything."

Stretching his arms out, like a bird about to fly, he steps to the edge of the harbour—the only thing between him, the clouds and the sky is the fence.

"Trust me, _nothing's_ changed," he laughs, "In the end, this is for the sake of my pride. If I'm going to die as an invalid, then I may as well die as an invalid that tried to save the world."

"Invalid?"

Eckhart's smile falters.

"I'm no longer a night walker—I was never a night lord."

He turns to her, expression inquisitive.

"Who am I, Lana? Better yet, _what_ am I?"

Lana clenches her fist, as the honk of a ship echoes from a distance.

"There _must_ be another way, Eckhart."

"If there was, then I'd stay."

Lana wraps her arms around his shoulders as the ship pulls into the dock.

"I don't want you to leave."

_Honk!_

"… Lana…"

"I don't want you to leave."

"Lana, it's too late for that now—"

"All aboard the ship to Orbis!" The shipmaster cries out over the screech of the ship's horn, "Show me your ticket, sir."

Eckhart coldly shakes Lana off his shoulders, as he holds out the small blue ticket.

"Please stay."

"All aboard!"

Eckhart only turns back as soon as he is on the ship, peering off the edge—already, his old teacher seems so much smaller from the hull of the ship.

"I don't want you to leave!" she repeats, as though those words could reach out and pluck him off the boat, "If we find another way to solve this, then you'll stay, right?"

Eckhart is silent.

"If we find another way, then—"

"—You have grown naïve in your retirement, Lana."

Lana's mouth is still agape.

"You won't survive, that way."

"I just…" She laughs a laughter without happiness, "I just don't want to outlive my first and only student, that's all."

Eckhart's smile, too, is without glee.

"Look after yourself, Lana."

She blinks, "What?"

"That's all I ask of you."

And, with that—and the last honk of the ship—he is whisked away into the skies.

* * *

Slowly—_too_ slowly, almost—Cecelia finds her eyes fluttering open, the blinding light of the fluorescent lamps making her grimace.

"… What…" is the first word to leave her lips, croaky.

Cecelia's eyes widen, as she instinctively begins to life herself up and off the hard floor—she can barely even move her fingertips.

'_Didn't sleep on a bed,_' she concludes, brain unable to process much more than those simple words—those fragmented, primitive sentences, '_Didn't shower, didn't sleep well._'

She shuts one eye from pain, as she attempts to crack her neck.

'_Pain. Ouch._'

… Crack, indeed.

Inner Cecelia tuts.

'_If I had a head to shake…_'

Cecelia rubs the back of her head, uttering inane phrases to herself that even she herself could not make out through the haze of her mind—save for but two words.

"Piss off."

Cecelia plops back on the floor, eyes half-lidded as she tries so hard to retrieve the memories she had just before she ended up here—how did she end up spending the night on the floor, anyway?

She frowns, only met with blankness, and frayed images of clicking puppets, and the wall…

"The wall…"

Cecelia lets her head fall to the side, as she gazes at the gap where she tore down the plaster—that's right. She was supposed to escape with Reina, wasn't she?

Her eyes widen.

'_Where is she?_'

"Reina?" she croaks.

Cecelia raises an eyebrow, as she turns her head on its other side in search of her—and, there she is, with strands of hair falling over her eyelids, mouth parted slightly.

Her calling now becomes desperate, sighting the small pool of blood stretching from her mouth.

"_Reina?_"


	21. To Wait, To Remember

**Chapter 21**

* * *

The thunder breaker finds her nose wrinkling as she grips on to the top of the scroll, eyes glossing over the text written on it.

Casmilia raises an eyebrow, as she lowers the parchment, "10 Boogies?"

The small girl looks up at the knight unblinkingly.

"That's me."

Casmilia bends forward to look at her at eye-level, narrowing her eyes.

"Why'd you pick that name?"

She lowers her gaze, before giving a small sigh.

"I wanted to fit in with the civilians, see. Apparently, my Erevian name translates to something like this in the Perion language," 10 Boogies, or whatever her _true_ name is, crosses her arms, the gesture accompanied by a small pout, "If you ask me, I think it isn't half bad."

"_Sure," _Casmilia smiles.

10 Boogies clears her throat, taking the strange-looking contraption from Casmilia's hand, still with a frown on her face.

"So this is the device Neinheart wanted us to trial?"

Casmilia's eyes dart around, as though the dust flying into the air around barren trees could provide an answer. The auburn-haired agent sighs.

"The one that detects dark magic, Casmilia?"

"I think so," she hums.

"Let's turn it on, then, shall we?"

"Um…"

Without waiting for an answer, 10 Boogies slides her thumb over the switch, the red light flickering on and off as she does so, small 'beep's emanating from the small device.

"Hm… Interesting."

Casmilia leans forward to peer at it.

"What's going on?"

"It seems to have picked up dark forces immediately," she frowns, "This is urgent, Casmilia."

"What is it?"

10 Boogies shoots her a death glare, and, all of a sudden, the petite girl doesn't seem as cute anymore, "The source of the puppeteer's magic is at the excavation site."

"Where's that?"

With a sigh, she points to the decrepit gate, adorned by goat skulls, rotted wood and spider webs.

"Down there, there should be a tribe of wooden masks where there used to be architects and geologists."

If Casmilia looks hard enough beyond the gate, she can see dead trees and tumbleweeds lazily rolling across the horizon. An entirely different world.

"_Used_ to be?"

10 Boogies rolls her eyes.

"I shall spare you the gruesome details, Lady Casmilia."

The teenager shudders, as she turns around towards the decaying arches.

"Off you go, now," 10 Boogies hums, "You must now kill one thousand Wooden Masks and obtain a Wooden Mask doll. Knowing the puppeteer—"

Casmilia freezes mid-step.

"What?!"

"Alright, we'll split the deal," she says airily, "I'm feeling kind today. How about five-hundred?"

The thunder breaker twiddles her thumbs, grinning like a maniac as she turns around slowly to meet her gaze, "T-Ten?"

10 Boogies raises an eyebrow.

"One-hundred."

"Twenty."

"Fifty," she says with an air of finality, "You will slay _fifty_ wooden masks, and try to find a Wooden Mask doll. We are familiar with the puppeteer's tactics by now, so, surely, you'll find at least one."

Casmilia blinks in response, but what good would it do if she were to protest?

'_Better than Hersha—at least there's a reason for all this…_'

Begrudgingly, Casmilia wordlessly begins her descent down the mountain down to the excavation site.

* * *

The rubber soles of her shoes skid against the corridor, as she, with her heart beating in her throat, feels tears sting in her eyes.

The magician—can she even be called that anymore?—runs, though not for her _own_ life. Cecelia turns sharply with a wince, as she tries the handle—thankfully, the door swings open with a resounding _creak_.

Not even bothering to slam it shut behind her, she feels cold sweat forming on her forehead, as she steps into the room. There, lying on the couch, is a tuft of tousled green hair rustling on the couch.

"Cecelia?" it grumbles from underneath the covers.

Cecelia's fists clench—not even caring enough to mask the sharp edge of her words, she snarls, "_Francis_."

"What are you doing here—" His breath is hitched in his throat, as he is torn from the couch by the top of his hood, skidding along the smooth floor until his back meets the wall.

Cecelia takes it upon herself to sprint up—and _on_ to—him.

"You little _shit_!"

Eyes widened, little Francis clutches at his stomach as he attempts to sputter something along the lines of '_what did I do?!_' only to spurt out blood, as her foot collides with his stomach a second time.

"Reina is _dying_ because you couldn't clean your fucking room!"

"I-It hurts…"

Francis' eyes widen, as her incessant kicking begins to cease.

'_She found out?_'

"I'm going easy on you, brat!" Cecelia tightens her grip on him, "Help me, or I'll show you what _true pain_ is."

Francis wipes the blood from the corner of his lip, panting, looking up at her, very sure he can no longer see out of his left eye.

'_Dammit._'

"No need."

'… _Cecelia's her partner, isn't she?_'

Cecelia examines the rest of the room. Thankfully, there are potions lining the shelves of the room, stacks of paperwork sprawled on—and around—the desk and chairs…

"Don't fuck with me, alright?"

Cecelia trudges forward to the wooden shelf, as she plucks the coloured glass bottles from their shelves with trembling fingers—coloured glass bottles with nothing in them.

"Shit!" the bottles clatter, "Where the hell are we?"

Not wanting to risk yet another beating, Francis gulps.

"Eleanor's office."

Cecelia slams the bottles back to where they belonged, the entire shelf trembling from the force.

"Why the fuck does she have empty potion bottles on her shelf next to a bunch of spell books?!" Cecelia groans, clutching at her hair as she stomps over to the desk, "It's so fucking misleading!"

"Th-There's an apothecary nearby i-in Edelstein…."

"We don't have _time_ to go to Edelstein!"

Francis tries to frown, though the swelling prevents him from doing so without him whimpering in pain.

"How bad is it?" he settles for a blank expression.

"She's _dying_, you shithead!" Cecelia begins to pull out drawers, a monstrous roar tears through the office as she struggles to pull it out. Using all of her strength to tear the drawer away, she pulls it out of the desk.

Francis simply stares on in horror, as unframed certificates, confidential documents and other asinine papers flutter to the floor amidst a flurry of every expletive known to man leaving Cecelia's lips.

"Fuck my life—!"

The _plop_ of a vial dropping on the large mountain of paperwork rings in her ears. Cecelia pants, as she plucks it from the floor, examining it—the glow from the vial is reflected in her eyes, maniacal from desperation, as she turns to the small puppeteer, holding it up by its cork.

"What's in this one?"

Francis brings a finger to his lips, pursed in thought.

* * *

_Francis peers from the crack in the doorway, hand leaning against the wooden frame of the door, as he witnesses the older woman lean back in her creaking office chair, muttering to herself._

_"In this bottle, right here," she brings it closer to her face, swishing the glowering liquid inside._

* * *

The puppeteer narrows his eyes.

"Eternity."

As Cecelia slams it down on the table, before using her hand to clasp at the puppeteer's robes, pulling him up to her eye level, "_I told you to not fuck with me!_"

Francis trembles under her grip, his forehead touching hers.

"But th-that's what Eleanor said—_agh_!"

Slammed to the floor while Cecelia takes the vial into her pocket, Francis lets out a yelp of pain.

"We need all that we can get."

"I don't think it's a healing potion—"

"_We."_

Cecelia's pacing grows tenfold, as she sprints down the hallway, Francis' robes billowing out as he follows her.

"_Need._"

She grits her teeth, as her steps grow quicker, a feat Francis thought not possible.

"_It!_"

"Why are you running?" he pants, clutching at the stitch in his side.

"What the hell sort of question is _that_?!" she throws her arms in the air in a display of defeat.

Skidding as they stop outside of the door—the golden-encased letters saying '_Francis' Room_' confirms that this is their destination—Cecelia wastes no time cracking the door open…

"Reina!"

Still unmoving, and growing ever so slightly colder, Reina doesn't even have so much as the energy to grunt in response.

* * *

_It is the first thing to part her lips, as she flutters her eyes open to see light—natural light, not the fluorescent bulbs of a laboratory—for the first time in many years._

_"Who are you?"_

_The girl with ashen brown hair keeps her gaze fixated on the road, as her jaguar whizzes through the air—the speed is almost like they were flying._

_"I'm Hana," she says, "Hana Kikuchi—Wild Hunter in the fourth division."_

_Reina lets out a small grunt in understanding, before the second thing to leave her lips tumbles out almost automatically._

_"Who am I?"_

_They come to a skidding halt, the jaguar purring as her claws scratch against the cobblestone paths of Edelstein._

_"Your name is Reina," she grins, as she hoists the little girl on to her back, "and you…"_

_Hana sorts through the contents in her pocket, until she pulls out a key._

_"… Are now my sister."_

* * *

'_Will I ever see you again, Hana?_'

Cecelia forces open those colourless lips of hers, tears stinging in her eyes as she bites off the cork.

'_What dreams do you see behind closed lids?_' Reina's eyelids flutter, her vision growing ever so slightly dimmed.

'_I suppose I will find out soon—_'

Cecelia flings the cork to the side, as she presses the neck of the vial to her lips.

"Don't die on me."

* * *

_Hana stares at her hands, flexing her fingers in those leather gloves as she slings the quiver over her shoulder._

"_Reina," she says, as she touches the handle of the door, "I'll be going out on a mission. Don't expect me to come home for a couple of days."_

"_You're always on missions, Hana."_

_"__What's wrong, kiddo?" _Hana blinks, pushing the door shut.

_Reina looks up at her with her wide, child-like eyes._

"_I heard about _him_."_

_Hana kneels down by her chair with a sigh, unstrapping her crossbow._

"_Reina, oh, Reina…"_

_Her chin rests on her shoulder blade as she hugs her from behind the chair._

"_He was a top member of the Resistance," she explains, "Notorious, too, notorious for being so talented at his art."_

_Hana shakes her head._

"_Too talented, that is," she tuts, "They always take down the hard workers first. The talented ones are their biggest threat."_

_Reina feels a lump growing in her throat, _"_You're good with your crossbow, Hana," she cringes mentally, "Your jaguar is the one which is most well-trained of all."_

_Hana hugs her from behind tighter with a laugh._

"_I found Jaira through sheer luck, Reina!" She ruffles her hair, "That's got nothing to do with skill at all."_

_Reina turns to the window._

"… _I'm scared."_

"_This isn't my first mission I've ever done," Hana's tone turns impatient, "And it's not that hard, anyway—just scouting for intruders. There usually aren't any, anyway. It's basically me camping out and doing nothing for a couple of days."_

_The drab grey of the clouds is the same colour as her eyes, as she gazes forlornly through the glass._

"_It is raining."_

_Hana lets out a sharp sigh, loosening her grip around Reina._

"_I'll be back really quickly."_

"_But—"_

"_I've left food in the fridge. Enough to last an entire week—it might go off by then, knowing your eating habits," she laughs,"You eat basically _nothing_."_

"_Wait—"_

_Hana gets up as quickly as she had wrapped her arms around her just seconds before._

"_I'll be back before you know it, trust me."_

_Reina turns around in time to see her goofy grin spread across her face, as she swirls around for the door._

"_It'll be like I was only gone for a few seconds!"_

_So quietly, without any more to say, she shuts the door behind her._

* * *

_Those seconds turn to minutes._

_Those minutes turn to hours._

_Those hours turn to days._

_Those days turn to weeks._

_And ever so slowly, as the pendulum swings, the hands on the clock twirl, those weeks turn to months…_

_And, before those months turn into years, she is gone._

* * *

Reina's eyes snap wide open, glowering a soft shade of green—numbers, digits and several strings of jargon she cannot possibly begin to hope to understand flash before her eyes.

"Reina?"

The girl is silent, mouth parted ever so slightly as a drop of the liquid dribbles out from the corner of her now-pigmented lips.

"_Reina?_"

Cecelia takes her head on to her lap, as her eyes begin to flash, from faded green, to pitch black, as those binary digits flash across the void of her eyes.

* * *

_Kneeling by the edge of the river with stained cheeks—whether those blinding droplets that stream down her cheeks are raindrops or tears, she doesn't care enough to know—Reina's fingers tremble._

_The small girl clenches her fist around the petals and crunchy leaves, as she gazes up into the sky. __Alas, she can only mutter one of the most obvious, mundane of things._

"_It is raining, Hana."_

_There is no laughter followed by the words that she utters, no friendly teasing as she ruffles her hair. __No smile that lit up and filled the world surrounding that was so bleak, so dark, and so,_ so _empty._

_Setting the wreath down into the water, an array of white lilies, thorny red roses, and tulips, washed away by the current. __Perhaps the rain, like the flowers, symbolised forgiveness—the cleansing of sin, the washing away of tears._

"_Nothing good ever comes out of the rain."_

_Perhaps the rain washed away all of the hope, as well._

_And Reina watches, with a strange, serene expression, as the heavy clunk of metal slowly—very slowly—bobs up and down the river, surrounded by a sea of bubbles before it is gone altogether._

_Perhaps the rain washed away all that is bad and old._

"_I have nothing left."_

_Perhaps, just maybe, when the sun peeks through the clouds…_

_Reina turns away from the carnage, the wreath of flowers now no longer visible no matter how hard she squints her eyes, as she runs her finger over the gem-encrusted ring._

"_Perhaps I can start again."_

_And, as nothing but that pitter-patter of rain as it drowns the world is there to answer her, she is gone._

* * *

Letting out a relieved sigh as she slowly begins to breathe again, Cecelia, however continues to shake her tiny frame—better to be safe than sorry, no?

"Was that…"

Cecelia blinks in response, as the digits become smaller, running faster across her eyes until all she can see are not but digits, but blurring symbols blurring with one another until they formed solid lines.

"What _was_ that?" Cecelia ponders to herself.

She watches on, as the glowing neon green blurs into her eyes, slowly fading, dying down to black as she opens her mouth open wider to speak—

* * *

'Why does this hold so much worth to you, dearest child,_' she laughed, and laughed, and laughed; even after her lips have been silenced, the voice still rings shrill and clear in her ears, '_if you don't even know what it even _is_?_'_

_With blank eyes, previously clear like crystal, now muddled like smog, for, now, there is blood on her hands, she slides the ring back onto her crimson-stained fingers._

_Is she as bad as they are, now?_

_No more than a hypocrite?_

_A mere mockery of everything she ever stood for?_

_She answers to what is left of the woman, strewn across the floor, a red-blotched cloth laid over her head, for the sight is too grotesque to witness._

"_Because it is the only part of me that I have left to cherish."_

_She has no more verity._

_No more integrity._

_Not even an _identity_._

"_There is nothing left for you to take away from me."_

* * *

"_**Aaaah!**_"

Reina's eyes return to the ghostly, silvery white they once were—she jolts up with a start, clutching at her chest.

_Pant, pant_, her heart thuds in her throat as she clutches at it with her other hand, choking on her own breath…

The looming darkness of shock overtakes the pleasant amazement of her not screaming out in pain whenever she moves her arms.

"… C-Cecelia…"

* * *

_With a calm—almost cold—politeness settling on her expression, the girl steps forward, eyes wary as she watches the witch from afar, those brilliant magenta robes billowing out into the air._

_The elite, they are. It is pronounced by their shimmering badges, the gold trimming to their robes, the weariness in their eyes._

… _They are the Black feathers embedded in the wings that will allow _him_ to rise into power._

_Swallowing, she is careful to be polite, yet not condescending._

_"To what occasion do I owe the honour of having two of the Black Mage's elite visit me?"_

* * *

Reina's voice crackles at the edges, as the sobs rack her chest.

"Please tell me that this world isn't a falsity."

Cecelia frowns.

"What?"

"Tell me… The Maple World is _real_," she lowers her voice to a whisper-shout, "This isn't an illusion!"

Reina can no longer see Cecelia's dumbfounded expression through her vision, clouded by those murky tears. She clutches at her shoulders, out of desperation—out of denial.

"You can't tell me that…"

Cecelia's eyes widen in realisation. She places her hands over her Reina's, her expression mirroring that of Reina's mere moments ago.

"How much do you know, Reina?"

* * *

"_What's in here?"_

"_Eternity."_

* * *

Reina's arms begin to tremble under her touch.

"Y-You knew all along, Cecelia?" Reina sniffles, "You knew…?"

Nothing about the world she lives in tangible, nothing is real, and she wonders if she is the same. She touches the side of her face—the tears that run down her cheeks are merely fabricated. The sadness that swells in her chest is perhaps only an imitation.

"You knew I wasn't real, all this time?"

The clap of Cecelia's hand colliding with her cheek rings sharp through her ears—the burning in her cheek, perhaps…

"Could you feel that?"

Tears continue to stream down her eyes, "What?"

"Could you feel the pain?" Cecelia says, expression still unyielding, "The humiliation from the fact that you're _sputtering_ and _crying_ in front of me like an idiot?"

Reina's cheeks are tinted a rather lovely shade of scarlet.

"N-Now, I do," she turns her head away, lips quivering as she suppresses another sob.

"Are you thinking right now?" Cecelia narrows her eyes now, "About how bitchy I am for pointing all of that out?"

Reina purses her lips, lowering her gaze even further.

"In all honesty…"

"I don't want an answer to _that_ one."

Cecelia plucks her hands away from her shoulders, and sets them in Reina's lap.

"If you can think, feel, _live_ for yourself, then you are more than a collection of pixels on a computer screen…" she says, "If you have a heart that beats day after day, even for the most hopeless of purposes… Then you _are_ human, Reina."

"What's going on?"

Cecelia's eyes narrow.

"You're _still_ here?" she snarls, turning to the puppeteer, genuine confusion is what she finds in his eyes.

Francis frowns, "What _are_ you people on about?"

"That's none of your goddamn business."

Cecelia clambers up, as she sights the hole in the wall, looking Reina dead in the eye, she tilts her head towards the tunnel.

'_Let's go._'

Reina, though the tears still flow, finds her eyes filling with as much determination as there are tears, as she wipes the last of them from her cheek. Cecelia, without a word—without even so much as a glance at the puppeteer—pulls Reina up on to her feet, before they set out into the secret exit.

Reina turns her head to the puppeteer with a small, sad smile.

"I suppose this is farewell."

Wide-eyed, Reina feels the familiar coldness and stinging pain flowing through her…

"I suppose it isn't. Not quite yet."

Cecelia whips around at Reina's small squeal, clenching her fists as her eyes are alight with anger.

"_Seduce_…" he mutters, eyes glowering.

"You little shit!" she points at him accusingly, "I knew it!"

Francis' grin grows dark.

Cecelia growls, "Let. Her. Go."

"Don't jump to conclusions, I'm not holding you back."

* * *

"_My darling, my son…" she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, "If there is one thing that you should remember of me…"_

* * *

"I just have a favour to ask of you."

Reina bites at her lip, as his mouth is right next to her ear.

"Wh-What is it?"

* * *

"_It should be that I loved you very much."_

* * *

"Find my mother."

The strings dissipate, and Reina's eyes widen, as, although she is free, she doesn't move. Francis gives a small smile, not quite noticing the tear sliding down his cheek.

"Tell her that I forgive her." The petite teenager turns around, so that her entire being is facing the puppeteer, "And when you find the truth, Reina, tell it to me."

Reina takes his hand in hers, circling her thumb over the back of his hand with a smile.

"I already know of the truth."

"The truth?" Francis cocks his head, "The truth of what?"

She bites her lip.

"The meaning of this life—no, this _existence _we both lead."

"Tell me, then."

Reina raises his hand to her chest with a small smile.

"I will make a promise to you, Francis," she says, tears threatening to fall, "I will swear on my life—when you are older—that I will come back to this wretched place."

Francis' mouth forms an 'o' shape as he feels the _ba-thump_ of her heart under his fingertips.

"… What will happen then?"

Reina clasps her hand tighter around his, "Then, and only then, I will tell you the truth. You are, indeed, a smart child, but you are much too young to bear the weight of the truth of the Maple World upon your shoulders."

Turning around one last time, she still gives him that solemn smile of hers—for she never smiles out of happiness. Finally, she unclasps his hand.

"Adieu."

The resounding farewell, ridden with tragedy, echoes through the exit as the pitter-patter of steps soon begin to be swept up by the cloak of darkness in the looping, convoluted tunnel.

"I will keep this promise, Reina," he says to no-one in particular, "and I will wait for you."

And, as he gazes longingly into darkness, bright as his future, he lets the tears fall as his gaze is directed to another corner of the room. There, hanging on the dresser, is a faded red coat—the one he has to pat the dust out of because it's been sitting there for too long.

* * *

_nd that nice, cream-coloured cashmere scarf – the one he got from his mother._

"_Mama, why are you dressing me up?"_

_She brushes the hair out of his eyes, before she gives a soft smile – a soft, warm one, for the first time in what seemed to be a century._

… _Oh, he knows—how he knows—that something is terribly, terribly wrong._

_Mama never smiles._

"_Because we are going shopping today, my dear boy."_

* * *

"I don't know when you're going to come back."

Another tear finds its way down his cheek, as he mutters to himself '_you're stupid_,' before wiping it away with his thumb.

"I don't know if you're even going to come back at all."

Francis takes the puppet—the one that _isn't_ broken—from its place next to his bed, as the mana buzzes at his fingertips, his strings attaching to the mannequin.

"I don't know if you know who I am anymore, mama."

He shuts the door of his room softly behind him—Le Tierre would clean up the rest, right? Not caring enough to figure out the answer to that question, he steps slowly, now, to the entrance of the Verne mine.

"Until then, Reina, Hana…"

He props himself up against the wall near the entrance, the air musky as dust flies about the entrance of the Verne mine.

"Mother…"

Perhaps, there is a chance, today, that something will emerge from the dust storm. A something that has wine red lips, rags over her too-thin shoulders, and arms spread wide to pull him into an embrace, those lips curved into a smile full of hope.

* * *

"_Mama?" he says to no-one in particular, as the sun sets into the horizon—the chilly day soon turns into the still chilly night._

"_Please come back, mama."_

_The boy shivers, as he huddles the skeletal puppet to himself closer._

"_We don't like the cold."_

* * *

Closing his eyes, Francis slides down the wall until he is crouching low on the ground; where he will stay, until he feels the tingle of her hair draping over his face as she pulls him into a tight embrace—one that says '_I will never lose you again_'.

And, until he sees that figure emerge from the distance, he will wait.

"I won't forget you."

He will wait, and he will remember.

* * *

Casmilia wipes the sweat from her brow, raising her eyebrow.

"What're you looking at me like that for?" she flips her hair, placing a hand on her waist.

10 Boogies simply stares on at the pile of dolls stacked in front of her, mouth growing dry.

"I-I didn't expect you to get this done so quickly…" she blinks, "Perhaps I should have made you kill 500 Stone Masks—"

Casmilia clears her throat in protest.

"Fine," the agent rolls her eyes, as she sorts through her pockets, "I'll give the device back to you, along with the report. Report to Neinheart as early as possible with your results."

After she pulls her leather gloves tighter, Casmilia takes the scroll into her hands.

"Wait, Casmilia."

The thunder breaker gives a small hum as she swirls around, her pony tails swishing at her waist.

"Yes?"

"I usually don't tell the knights assigned to help me something like this," she lowers her voice ever so slightly, "Really, this is the first time I've said something like this at all."

Casmilia's shoulders relax.

"What is it?"

"You have potential, Casmilia."

The young girl's eyes widen.

"R-Really?" a blush tints her cheeks, "You really think so?"

10 Boogies' unusually solemn smile becomes genuine.

"From what I'd heard from the other agents…" she tilts her head to the side, "You might have gotten your friend to help you, but you'll soon surpass him in level and strength."

A brilliant grin brightens up Casmilia's innocent features, "Did they all say that?"

10 Boogies supresses her own giggle.

* * *

François' red eyes glower as a brilliant grin stretches over his features, knuckles white as he carves the message into the damp wood.

"This should do excellently…"

"Hey!"

Turning around, unblinkingly, François sees the man on top of the arc leading into Sleepywood, a frown on his face.

"What do you think you are doing, child?" he questions, "The Mysterious Statue is an artefact of the ages. How dare you defile it!"

He simply giggles, as he presses his knife harder against the rotted, splintered wood: the puppeteer simply laughs harder, as he admires his handiwork—to his chagrin, The Rememberer does not stare on in horror, as he hoped—expected—he would.

Instead, he sits in contemplative silence.

"Child," he booms, "Come forth, child."

François' face falls to a deadpan.

"I can see it in you," he lowers his gaze to meet him at eye level, "Are you lost?"

The child raises an eyebrow.

"… Not at all," he answers, "Aren't you going to chastise me for vandalising the statue, or something?"

The Rememberer gives a sigh, "I just want to know one thing."

"What?"

"Your name, child," he says, "What is your name?"

"Francis."

The boy's eyes glower, as he gives a brilliant smile.

"My name is Francis."

The gruff man places his hand on his chin, pursing his lips as he hums meditatively—this boy…

"… There is something odd about you, Francis."

His grin only grows wider at this statement.

"What is it?"

He peers at the small child with narrowed eyes.

"Are you a child of darkness?"

François returns his expression, glaring daggers into the older man with those brilliant red eyes of his.

"What's it to you?"

The Rememberer exhales—perhaps this child isn't a child at all, for his aura of darkness is too strong… Not even an adult can hold so much hatred inside of them that it emanates from their heart in such strong waves.

"Goddess… I only met you a couple of minutes ago, and you're already going to lecture me!"

With a maniacal laughter escaping his lips, he swirls around on his heel.

"Oh well—it doesn't matter in the end."

The Rememberer blinks.

"What?"

* * *

"… It's only a matter of time, after all."

10 Boogies' face falls to a deadpan once more.

"Go," she points towards the steep mountainside—what separates Perion from the outside world, "Report to Neinheart as soon as possible."

Casmilia gives a sharp nod, eyes filled to the brim with determination, the bounce in her step as bright as the lingering smile on her lips.

'_I wonder what that potion does…_'


	22. Pretend

**Chapter 22**

* * *

_Stomp, crunch, stomp…_

_Under her heels, the snow crunches._

"_Mummy, what happened to grandfather?"_

_The boy tilts his head to the side in all his childish glory – he is six years old, what _else_ could he do, but ask questions as blithely as a child at a circus?_

"_You never told me."_

"_You ask me for the story every night, my boy," she sighs, "It is a pity you can't remember."_

_Her gaze grows dark._

"_You are like your father—he can never keep promises."_

_Her too-tight grip on his hand grows ever stronger._

"_That's because he can never remember them."_

* * *

Francis brings his knees to his chin, as he gazes out into the sandstorm.

"It's not that I never understood, mama…"

* * *

_Francis grimaces._

"_I won't ever forget what you say."_

_His mother freezes mid-step, heart thudding painfully in her chest._

"_Really?"_

"_Really."_

_She still stares straight ahead._

"_Then what do you remember of what I say about him?"_

_Francis exhales, the puff of steam escaping his lips dissipating into the frigid winter air._

"_About how much he loved me, and how much he loved life," he begins, "How he had joy that knew no boundaries—how he had never acted or spoke morosely."_

_Francis looks up to his mother—who gasps, for he had recited everything she had said, word-for-word— with a smile._

"_How he brought me all these toys, dolls, and these puppets with a thousand silly expressions," he hugs his favourite doll—the one without eyes and a sprout growing out the top of its head; the ugly one, or so she liked to call it—closer to his chest, "I know all of that."_

_Francis' mother finds her eyes welling up with tears._

"_But what does it all mean?"_

* * *

Blinking away the wetness in his eyes—it's from the sand, surely, because only little girls and small children cry—Francis narrows his eyes as he peers at the silhouette.

It is a silhouette with a hooded cloak, tarnished and torn at the edges.

It is a silhouette that, now it is closer, he can tell always has the scent of wine on its breath—and a twinge of that rose perfume that was always there before they couldn't afford it any longer.

Realisation washes over him.

"Mama?" is what he whispers so softly, the message carried away by the dusty wind.

* * *

"_What is the meaning of the story?" he tilts his head, "Is it really true, maman?"_

_Finally, she musters the courage to whip around, and bore her eyes into his – innocent, and undeserving of the life she has set out for him._

_A life of hardships._

_An endless pit of sadness, is what he will end up with…_

"_I will tell you when you're older," she says – resolute, determined._

"_Older?"_

"_When you are at least ten years old, Francis," she chokes, "My son, I will tell you everything."_

_Stomp, crunch, stomp… _

_Without another word, they continue to trudge through the snow._

* * *

"Francis?"

The puppeteer's grin falters as she pulls down her hood, revealing a mop of knotted silver hair.

"What are you doing out here, Francis?" she touches his shoulder, "You should be recovering."

"Bleeding knuckles doesn't generally warrant a sick day," he rolls his eyes, "Besides; they've been disinfected and wrapped up in bandages. I'll recover just fine."

"You're not supposed to be on guard duty, Francis," Eleanor strokes his hair, "It's not your job."

Francis wrinkles his nose.

"Don't bother covering it up."

Her hands and her fingernails reek of filthy antiseptic.

Eleanor places her hand behind her back, "What?" She pauses to give a nervous laugh, "What are you talking about, Francis? I just like to wash my hands, that's all. There's nothing more to it, stop overthinki—"

"Stop."

Eleanor's twisted smile fades with a sigh leaving her lips.

"When you wash your hands, you use the flowery, old soap," he continues, "

"I'm sorry."

"Everyone and their mother knows you kill people for a living," Francis spits, "If you're sorry, then you should have said that a long, _long_ time ago."

Eleanor crouches down, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Look, Francis," the witch clutches at her hand—pink, from all that time she spent at the sink scrubbing away all the angry red bloom, "This is what we all live for. This is my duty to the Black Mage."

"Who was it this time?"

Francis stands up, clenching his fists, not caring enough to hear his puppet clattering to the ground.

"You always tell me it's someone that's '_not important'_."

"Francis…" she plucks her staff from her back.

"Maybe it was a Chief Cygnus Knight," he says, "Perhaps a powerful member of the Resistance who wasn't doing anything except _doing their job_…"

Eleanor bashed her staff to the ground—the Earth beneath their feet trembles from her fury.

"_Francis_!"

The boy gulps.

"I don't like my job much, either," she remarks, "But can't you remember what I once told you?"

Francis lowers his gaze, letting out a sigh.

"You never get what you want," he drones.

Eleanor kneels down to meet his gaze, jaw tightened.

"How many people are going to die for the sake of his goal?" he narrows his eyes.

"Our goal," she corrects, "We have our own goals, too. We shall achieve them in helping him—"

"Many men, women and children, Eleanor," he says, "Have been killed in the name of the Black Mage."

Eleanor wipes the tears away from his eyes with the stroke of her thumb. The boy doesn't know whether he is grimacing at the words that are to follow, or the scratch of her long, manicured nail scraping across his face.

"Many men, women and children, Francis," she says, "Will continue to be sacrificed for the sake of our selfishness."

She runs her fingers through his soft hair—her touch is so soft, so loving.

Just like the only other person who had ever cared for him.

"We must continue to do this in order to keep living—in order for us to be granted our promise. What we wished for before we signed up to be a part of this..."

Her mouth grows dry, as she is unable to utter that last syllable.

Nevertheless, Francis presses on, "What did you wish for, Eleanor?"

Her smile is mirthless, and is one of forged hope.

It is a wearied smile that knows of reality; the reality that this forged hope is fleeting, and can never be.

"Some of it has already come true, Francis."

"What is it?"

She smiles, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

"Say, you've probably fallen behind in your studies in the past couple of weeks," she says, "I'll maybe find a few worksheets for you and him to work on while I do a bit of paperwork."

Francis stands up, grabbing her wrist as she swirls around.

"What were you promised, Eleanor?"

Eleanor glances at him over her shoulder with a small smile.

"That's a secret."

Francis simply watches on wordlessly, as the shadow of her figure into the tunnels of the Verne Mine.

* * *

Neinheart looks up from his clipboard, clearing his throat.

"So, Lady Casmilia."

"Neinheart," is her stark reply.

"You have thus far assisted every agent stationed at the towns in Victoria," he gives a slow clap, expression still unyielding, "Well done."

Casmilia, still, raises an eyebrow.

"Is that golf clap meant to mean anything?"

"The fact that we still have one more town to investigate, since we don't have the sufficient information to track down the puppeteer himself, yes…" he says wryly, "Yes, it is meant to mean something."

She places a hand on her waist with a sigh.

"So what's that got to do with anything?"

"I've decided, from your excellent performance and feedback from the other agents," he clears his throat, "That you should be the one stationed at this town."

Casmilia blinks in response.

"And _where_ is this town?"

Teeth chattering—certainly not from cold, this part of Victoria Island tends to humid even in the wintertime, or so she was told—as her eyes dart around, Casmilia gulps.

Her eyes widen, as she spots, on top of the hill, a stump labelled as a 'hotel' with strange-looking men wearing nothing but rags leaning against the vine-encrusted wall, heads resting against wicker baskets, the occasional snort leaving their parched lips.

Casmilia frowns, wrinkling her nose.

"Th-This isn't even a _town_…"

'_No wonder there's nobody stationed here—it's in the middle of nowhere!'_

Casmilia, burying her head in her hands, could only come to one conclusion that she hisses through clenched teeth:

"I hate my life."

Still with her teeth gritted, she picks up her clipboard, the one with the quill attached, as she approaches the man floating atop of the arch…

* * *

"So, Francis, what technique do you think was used here?"

The boy narrows his eyes at the novel before him—the words almost undecipherable after his hiatus from schoolwork and books.

"I don't know."

Baroq gives a sigh.

"… So you have gotten rusty after several weeks, I see," he shakes his head, "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so lazy."

"H-Hey—!"

"It's okay, Francis," he smiles—Francis can't tell whether it is a smile of mockery, or of understanding, "Everyone has their bad days."

_Knock, knock!_

Baroq turns to the door, "Come in."

Eleanor peeps from a crack she makes in the door, stepping through with a stack of papers in hand, and a smile adorning her lips.

"Working hard here?"

"You got all the worksheets?"

"Maths, science, English…" she shuffles through them, "I think that's all you asked for."

"You're very reliable, Eleanor," Baroq smiles.

He takes it from her, muttering something along the lines of 'thank you' before he plops it down on the desk.

"Oh, hush," Eleanor gives a chuckle, "It is the only trait of mine that surpasses my exceeding beauty."

Baroq remains blank-faced, as he simply stares ahead, waiting until he hears the click of the door being shut.

"… What technique did _Eleanor_ just use there, Francis?"

"That," he begins, "was a lie."

Letting out a hearty laugh, Baroq digs through his pockets.

"Good job, kiddo," he empties the contents of his pockets onto the desk, "You're not so rusty after all. Here, take a lemon drop."

Francis rolls it around between his thumb and forefinger, wrinkling his nose as he sights lint and other things he dares not mention.

"Thanks," he mutters, setting it back down on the table, "But no thanks."

Without even a trace of disappointment, the occasional chuckle still leaving his lips, he puts the scrap pieces of paper, half-wrapped lollies and old coins into his pockets.

"Say, Francis…"

"Yeah?"

"I thought I'd tell you after the session, but, uh…" he scratches the back of his head, "Now that the subject of Eleanor's been brought up, and all, it reminded me—I'll forget by the end of the session, too."

"What is it?"

Baroq looks around, before he lowers his voice to a hushed whisper as he closes in on Francis' ear…

* * *

"Child…"

The man opens his eyes, still retaining that ever-still position atop the arc.

"What brings you here?"

"Hi," Casmilia says starkly, followed by a nervous laughter under his scrutinizing gaze, "Who are you, sorry?"

"I am none other than The Rememberer," he intones, "What is it that you seek?"

"I am Casmilia, thunder breaker of Ereve stationed in Sleepywood," Casmilia gives a mock curtsy, "I seek the puppeteer. Have you seen him around, by any chance? The Order of Cygnus has tracked him all around the towns in Victoria—except for this one."

"Puppeteer?" he raises an eyebrow, "Puppeteer? I have never heard of that name before. It's a strange name…"

Casmilia brushes her bangs away from her face, letting out a sigh.

"OK. Thank you for your time—"

"I did, however," he begins, "run into a child carrying a small doll in his arms just the other day."

A glimmer of hope appears in Casmilia's eye.

"A little kid carrying around a doll?"

"Yes," he nods, "I distinctively remember it because of the strange aura surrounding him."

The older man wrinkles his nose at the memory of all the hatred exuded from such a small boy.

"I felt like he was endangering himself from doing whatever he was doing, so I tried to talk to him," his face falls into a frown, "But… Well…"

"What is it?"

"The only thing I could find out was his name."

A smile lights up Casmilia's features, as she takes out her clipboard.

"So, you know what his name is?"

"Of course I do…" he raises an eyebrow, "But I can't just give you his name like _that_."

The thunder breaker's lips turn downward.

"What?"

"How do I know that this boy is just an innocent boy, and you are going to use his identity for things that are, well… Not quite innocent?"

Casmilia's shoulders drop.

"Is there a way I can prove to you that I _won't_ use this information for evil purposes?"

"Well…" The Rememberer smiles, "If you really want to know this kid's name so badly…"

* * *

Casmilia huffs, as she wipes the sweat from her brow as she tucks her bangs, previously sticking to her sweat-drenched face, behind her ear.

"Won't the zombie mushrooms just come back since they're _undead_, and everything?" she mutters under her breath, as another mushroom fades from oblivion, leaving behind nothing but a small golden coin and a tag.

Taking both of them, she wrinkles her nose as she puts it in her pocket.

"For the Cygnus Knights …"

Wordlessly, she swirls around, giving an energy-charged somersault kick to the nearest mushroom, which squeals in pain as it, too, dissipates into the musky air of the cave.

"Puppeteer…"

Gritting her teeth, she charges forward with lightning-infused fists as she tears through a helpless mushroom.

"… You better watch out."

* * *

Casmilia narrows her eyes, huffing and puffing, as she plonks the pile of charms in front of the arc, gazing up at The Rememberer.

"Is this proof enough that I've defeated _250_ zombie mushrooms?"

The man looks down upon the pile with a pleased smile.

"You want his name now, don't you?"

As though gasping for air, she continues to take heavy breaths as she takes her clipboard, quill at the ready—her eyes still stinging as she had emerged from that dank cave called a dungeon only moments before.

"Yes."

"His name is Francis."

"Francis?"

He nods.

Scrawling it across the top of the page, Casmilia sticks her tongue out in concentration.

"He's the kind of kid that seemed a bit off-centred," he continues, "Though, I'm not sure if he's this 'puppeteer' you're looking for. Good luck with your endeavours."

"Thank you, sir," she gives a small bow, "I will need all the information I can get at this stage."

Before he can even mutter so much as 'you're welcome', the petite girl is already scuttling up the hill.

'_Francis, Francis, Francis…_' She bites her lip, raising her eyebrow, '_Geez. That sounds like a girl's name._'

Looking up from her clipboard, she stows it away as she peers around the small forest town from atop the hill.

'_Probably suits him._'

"Now, let's see…" her eyes scan around the hills, and the entrance of the dungeon, "Who's next…"

* * *

Francis' expression is blank, the stinging sensation strangely dull as he inadvertently wraps the bandages around his fist tighter.

"OK, that's it for science," Baroq slides the worksheet into the folder, "We're done for today."

"Great," the puppeteer hops off his chair, "When's our next session?"

Baroq mentally cringes.

"Maybe not for a while," he scratches the back of his head, "As I said before… You know. _That_."

Francis grimaces at the thought of it.

"Then is it possible for me to leave the hideout for a couple of days?"

Baroq's eyes widen.

"A week, maybe—"

Baroq hastily grabs Francis' folder off the table, taking it into the crook of his arm as he clears his throat.

"I'm not too sure about that."

"It's only a couple of days."

Baroq pushes his chair back into the desk.

"You're gonna have to ask Eleanor about that," he makes his way to the door, "I'm sorry. I don't think she'll allow you out to _Victoria_ for that long."

"But… But I do all my missions on Victoria…"

'_The Seal Stone…_'

The door closes with a click behind him, as he lets out a sigh.

"Francis, just go ask Eleanor."

"B-But _Ludibrium_…"

Baroq sighs.

'_What a childish dream he has._'

"I'm off to get a cup of coffee."

* * *

"The puppeteer, you say?"

The man with the strangely low, slow voice continues to pluck the petals from strange pink herbs with calloused fingers, as he places what is left of the stem in a large basket, lips pressed together pensively.

"I think I remember passing by a strange hut with a large doll hanging outside of it. Didn't see anyone there, though—it looked a little abandoned."

Casmilia gulps, as she takes out her clipboard once more.

"Would you mind telling me where it is?"

'_Please don't make me kill an entire population of mushrooms._'

Sabitrama looks up to the canopies, as though searching for an answer.

"Well, there's this potion that I was thinking of making the other night," he narrows his eyes in thought, "But I didn't have all the ingredients…"

As a smile lingers on his features, a frown is what lingers on hers.

"You wouldn't mind helping me look for them, would you?" He chuckles, "I heard you were taking up pest control duty with The Rememberer."

'_For the love of—_'

"Defeat 100 Evil Eyes for me, won't you?" he pleads before she even opens her mouth, "Some of them migrated down from the trees in Ellinia, and have started eating my crops. Maybe you can attack them all from the root—they won't dare come back again, perhaps."

Casmilia can already feel her muscles aching at the very thought of it.

"I'll take that silence as a yes. Please defeat them for me."

Wordlessly, she turns to the man on his side—sleeping under the shade of the stump, sprawled out on the floor…

The Cygnus Knight gulps.

"Excuse me, sir?" she takes out her clipboard again, "Would you mind telling me if you have seen the puppeteer around these parts? He's a boy who carries around a doll all the time."

Groggily, the man lets out a groan.

"What?" he yawns, "Do you need a doll?"

Casmilia rolls her eyes.

"I asked if you have seen the puppeteer, sir."

The man lets out a sigh, scratching the back of his bald head.

"I'm so sorry, I thought you were the first customer in a while!" he lets out a laugh, "But, I'm sorry, who's the puppeteer?"

"A strange boy named Francis," she reads off her clipboard, messy illegible notes scrawled across the parchment, "Who carries around a doll everywhere. Have you seen him?"

He wrinkles his nose at the description.

"Oh, the unruly kid with the green hair?" he spits, "I noticed the kid was about to act upon something very sinister—though, before I could get to him…"

"Did he end up doing this '_something very sinister_'?"

"No, no…" he narrows his eyes in thought, "The Rememberer called upon him before I could do anything."

"What sort of prank is it?"

"What?" He mirrors, "What sort of prank is it? That was… Hm…"

Casmilia bites her lip, as she watches the man look up and around, then down to his feet again as he hums, muttering things to himself.

"I will tell you if you help me with something."

"What _now_?" she groans.

"Please get me 100 Horny Mushroom caps. A customer of mine has greatly sought them for weeks now—but I am too tired to step foot out of Sleepywood to go all the way to Henesys."

Begrudgingly, Casmilia tugs down on her leather gloves, flexing her fingers before she clenches onto her brass knuckles.

'… _No wonder you have no customers._'

* * *

"You want to do _what_?!"

"Check up on all of my hideouts, that's all," he shrugs, "Just to see if anything hasn't been stolen and stuff."

Eleanor raises an eyebrow.

"Nobody wants to steal your things, Francis," she sighs, "They probably can't get into your hideout, anyway—not with those guard puppets and defence mechanisms."

Francis takes a tuft of his hair, twirling it on his index finger.

"Anything's possible."

"What possessed you to think you can just up and leave like…" Eleanor clicks her fingers, "_That?_"

He rolls his eyes.

"I'm not going to just _up and leave_," he groans, "I have things to do, you see. Baroq would know about them."

Francis turns to the man, who finally looks up from his coffee mug.

"Right, Baroq?"

The wizard frowns, still hunched over his cup.

"What?"

"See, Eleanor?" Francis twirls around to face Eleanor with a grin plastered on his face, "Can I go now, then?"

The Black Witch narrows her eyes.

"This seems awfully suspicious."

"The way you're not letting me out of the Verne Mine like you usually do is even more so—why are you trapping one of your most important subordinates in here?"

Eleanor places her finger on her chin.

"Touché, dear," she bites her lip, "Touché."

"So are you going to let me go or not?"

"No."

Francis buries his forehead in the middle of his palm with a groan.

"… _What_."

"We were just forcing him to go to Victoria the other day when he refused," Baroq adds, "And now you're forcing him to stay away from Victoria when he _wants_ to go?"

"Yeah!" Francis pipes up, "What's with _that_?"

She lets out a sharp sigh, kneeling down to look at Francis more closely.

"Don't you remember what you told me, Francis?"

"_They're after me."_

He opens his mouth to say '_yes_' but instead opts to say: "What _are_ you talking about?"

As her gaze grows dark, Eleanor crouches down, silently taking his hand in hers.

"_Who are they, Francis?"_

"Can't you remember?" She unwittingly traces her thumb lightly over his gauze-wrapped knuckles, "You told me about it the other night."

Francis slaps her hands away, shaking his head.

"_I don't know _who_ they are. I don't know _what_ they are. But they're after me, I tell you, they're everywhere—"_

"—I was just being stupid."

Eleanor's jaw tightens.

"I say stuff like that all the time," he continues, rolling his eyes in a very Francis-like fashion, "Why did you take it so seriously?"

"Do you remember what happened to Lady Valerie, Francis?"

"Ugh!"

He throws his arms in the air in defeat.

"I'm not going to get shot in the middle of the town square…" He reasons, "Goddess, Eleanor, I'm not even going to be staying in Victoria for that long!"

Eleanor places a finger on his lips.

* * *

"… _Valerie?"_

_She turns around fully to face the puppeteer, strands of hair falling over her unblinking onyx eyes._

"_Eh?"_

_She crouches down to face him as he approaches, the limbs of his puppet bundled in his arms clacking against each other with each step he takes._

"_Francis?" She tries to keep the naturally sharp edge to her voice, ruby red lips curving into a smile, "What are you doing out here?"_

_His expression falls flat—serious, he gazes her._

"_You shouldn't go out to town today," he tilts his head to the side, "It'll be better if you go tomorrow."_

_The woman lets out a laugh, tucking a tuft of curled jet black hair behind her ear._

"_What, do you need something from me?"_

"_I just have a bad feeling about today."_

"_Tch…"_

_She begins walking out of the mine, purse in hand as the echo of her footsteps clacking against the stone reverberates in his ears._

"_Stupid kid…" is the last thing he ever hears her mutter._

* * *

The witch narrows her eyes.

"You knew it was going to happen, weren't you?"

Baroq blinks, gaze flickering between the two—Francis begins to frown, as Eleanor places a hand on her hip…

"You're not going—your little predictions are always correct."

Francis grits his teeth.

"What?"

"I said I'm not letting you leave the hideout," she growls through clenched teeth, with an air of finality, "That much, I have decided."

"Who are _you_ to decide this stuff for me?"

"I'm just worried about you…" She finds her hand running through his hair, "And about all the things you've told me—isn't that normal?"

Francis grits his teeth, as he slaps her hand away.

"No!"

Eleanor's hand freezes.

"What?"

"It's not normal for you to be worrying about me so much!" he hisses, "Why do you even care?!"

Eleanor feels tears sting in her eyes, as her hand curls up in front of her chest.

"Because you're my…" she reaches out to him, "Francis, you're…"

"_You aren't my mother!_"

Eleanor brings a hand to her chest, eyes widening.

Is that it?

"B-But, Francis," she stammers, "I still believe you are very precious to me—"

"But you can't ever replace her," his face is hot as tears—ones of realisation—prickle in his eyes, "You can't _ever_ be my—"

The tears now flow freely as he is pulled into a tight embrace.

"—M-Mother."

Her eyes water.

"I know that, Francis," she gently brushes her fingers through his hair, "That I can never replace your mother."

She pulls him in tighter, as his tears soak her shoulder.

"But, no matter how contorted, how twisted, how sinful and how corrupted we all are…" she offers but a wretched smile, "For the sake of our sanity… Can't we just _pretend_ to be…"

"… No."

Her heart skips a beat.

"Excuse me?"

The way the edge of his voice cut her like a razor blade; the way his eyes flashed heat waves at her, lapping at the edges of her heart, threatening to consume her…

"No. We can't just _pretend_ to be a family," his voice is sharpened with those tears, "That's not family at all."

"Don't you seek what the Black Mage promises, Francis?" she pleads, "Ludibrium—the land of puppets, ruled over by none other than the genius Puppeteer? Is that not the happiness you dream of?"

"I don't want Ludibrium!"

He slaps her away, tears hot in his eyes.

"Dreams and delusions are nice," he says, "But to pretend to is to deny the truth. Isn't knowledge what you seek? Truth, justice? Aren't those the things you value?"

Eleanor's jaw tightens.

"I don't want to live seeking lies, Eleanor."

Finally, she lets the tears fall.

"If it is a mother that you want," she whispers, "Then that is what I can be."

Francis lowers his gaze.

"I don't _want_ a mother—I _need_ a mother." He says, "And I don't need just _any_ mother—I need _my_ mother."

He looks up at her forlornly.

"Where is she, Eleanor?"

Eleanor grimaces, as she looks on to the snivelling boy.

"Where's _mama_?"

Still on her knees on the cold marble floor, it is Eleanor's turn to have tears streaming down her cheeks.

"You called Baroq your father," she wipes the tears from her eyes, "Can't you call me your mother, then? Just _pretend_. _Pretend_, Francis, that we are all a happy, functional family—"

"But we're not."

Her voice shakes now; though on the verge of defeat, and perhaps mental breakdown, she trudges on.

"You remember what I used to say, right, Francis?" her smile is wretched, "It's not just genetics—blood—that determine who you and your family a-are…"

She buries her face in her hands, legs giving way…

'_You choose your own family,_' are the words she cannot bring herself to mutter.

Because _she_ has not been chosen—she is not his family.

"Don't r-remind me, Francis," her voice is muffled, as she buries her face in her hands, "I don't want to remember anymore."

Francis hides his sniffles, watching as the woman with so much strength, power and seemingly endless wisdom is reduced to tears and blubbering.

"Remind you of what?"

Eleanor takes in a shuddering, shallow breath.

"When you imagine that when a parent holds a child in their arms, they feel joy, pride, happiness, love," her voice lowers into a flat droning, "And what you feel is the exact opposite."

Francis' eyes widen, as he steps back.

"But where they have love, hope, peace," her voice grows coarser as she spits each word with such fury, "You only have _bitterness_ and _despair_!"

Eleanor'sand fists clenched as she props herself up on her two feet—those shimmering violet eyes absolutely maniacal.

"I know I can never be _your_ mother," her shoulders tremble, "I know I can never be _a_ mother."

She looks up at him with a smile forlorn, her tears stained black from her makeup.

"But can't I at least try?"

"E-Eleanor…"

"Look, Francis. Baroq and I…" she continues, "Our lives are worthless. We have nothing else to live for."

She places her hands over his shoulders—as always, Francis flinches at the contact.

"We lament our childhoods, the lives that we could have lived, wasted," she says, "The dreams we once had, when we were your age, maybe even a little bit older. They're all dead."

Eleanor's lip quivers, as she gives another sniffle.

"On the inside, _we_ are dead."

She shakes him slightly, as he begins to direct his gaze towards his feet.

"Look at me, Francis," she says, "_Look at me_. I can see it inside your soul—you are still alive. You are a child. Therefore, as a child, you still have a future."

'_You are still innocent._'

"We fight, we bleed, and we die," she whispers, "Not for the Black Mage— but for _you_, Francis."

'_We bleed, we plunder, and we pillage…_' her lips twitch as she attempts to curve them into a smile, '_So that _you_ won't have blood on your hands._'

Francis attempts to return the smile—though only tears stream down his cheeks.

"Don't live for me."

Taken aback, Eleanor's eyes widen as he wriggles out of her grasp.

"Don't _die_ for me."

"Francis?"

"If you couldn't get out of the organisation so many years ago, and can't leave even _now_," he narrows his eyes, turning away from her—she shouldn't have to see him cry, "Then what are the chances that _I'm_ going to get out?"

"But, Francis," she replies, "_You_ can't remain a pawn in the Black Mage's game—the game where nobody wins. You are squandering away your potential."

_Plip._

_Plop._

"I know, Eleanor," his voice is choked with tears, "And I'm not going to be here forever."

Wiping the tears away from his eyes, he glances back to the witch.

"Don't fight, don't bleed, don't die," he is blinded by tears now, "Not if it's not for you."

Before she can pull him into another stifling embrace, Francis shuffles towards the door, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.

"If I don't come back," he doesn't dare turn around to face her again, "Remember that."

"Wait—!"

Francis shuts the door behind him before he hears another word, shutting his eyes as he leans against it.

* * *

"_What is it?"_

_Baroq looks around, before he lowers his voice to a hushed whisper as he closes in on Francis' ear._

"_I'm going on a very big mission soon—I don't know when I'll be going, but it's sometime in the near future."_

"… _And?"_

"_Francis," he sighs, "Don't tell anyone—especially not Eleanor. I don't know if I'll be coming back or not."_

_The boy grimaces._

"_You said that last time."_

"_You should know by now that when I say something like that when I'm delivering Bavan's chips," he smirks, "You should know that I'm being entirely sarcastic."_

_A smile graces Francis' lips._

"_So this isn't a big mission after all?"_

"_No, no," Baroq bites his lip, "See, this is the biggest mission I have ever taken in my life. I'm not kidding around this time."_

_Francis' grin falters._

"_Why are you telling me this?"_

"_In case I never get the chance to tell you, Francis," he reaches out for his hand, "It's that Eleanor and I love you very much."_

_Baroq feels a smile creeping up his lips._

"_Heh," he larks, "It's almost like we're a family, Francis."_

_The boy gives a weak smile, letting him place his hand over his, not daring look him in the eye._

"… _Almost."_

'_I'm sorry._'

* * *

"Baroq…" Francis clenches his fists, almost to the point of drawing blood, "I know you care for Eleanor…"

He shakes away the newly found memory—faded, as though distant—that continues to assault him, burning at him from the deep pits of his heart…

"And I care for her, too."

* * *

"_Eleanor only wants the best for you."_

_The boy looks down to his lap, as he gives a curt nod._

"_Yes?"_

"_She loves you more than the world—hell, even more than that."_

_Francis feels tears stinging in his eyes, as he looks up to the master of disguise._

"_What is it that you wanted to tell me?"_

_His jaw tightens, as he gazes out a nearby window—anything to avoid his gaze._

"_Look, Francis," he begins with a shuddering sigh, "Nobody else is out there for Eleanor—no-one except you and I."_

"_But if you're gone…"_

"_Then there's only you left," Baroq finishes for him._

"_And then what?"_

"_Take this as my dying wish…"_

* * *

Heart heavy with burden, and eyes laden with tears, he hears a faint sobbing coming from the other side of the door.

* * *

"… _Look after Eleanor—and keep her safe, no matter what it takes."_

* * *

'_But I can't look after Eleanor if I can't even look after myself._'

With not another thought on his mind, he gets up and treads on the path towards Edelstein station.


	23. Playwright

**Chapter 23**

"Tch."

The no-longer-masked man looks up at the looming clock tower looming so imposingly over him, chocolate brown eyes narrowing as the eternal light of the sun shines on the disgustingly—perhaps _shamelessly_—exultant town.

"You couldn't have paid me enough to station me here," Eckhart mutters, "Goddess. Everything is so cheerful, the sun never sets, the _buildings_ and _people_ are made of plastic, and—"

'—_This is what my entire life has so far boiled down to._'

He shuts his eyes, silent with the revelation as he gazes into the darkness of the clock tower, the pendulum clicking in its monotony—_tick, tock_.

Before the pull of hesitation tugs him away, Eckhart—ignoring the incredulous stares of nearby bystanders—pries open the door to the clock tower.

The only thing that greets him is the chorus of ghouls lurking within, and a chilling wind that seemed to whisper '_come in, come in…_' as it whistles past his eyes and ears.

"This is it, isn't it?"

An arbitrary question—perhaps, as he takes in his surroundings one last time, this will be the last time he will see the sun, the sky, the sea…

And then, without thinking, without breathing, and—he expects, he _hopes_—without a twinge of fear, he leaps into the unknown.

* * *

"Wow," Sabitrama hums, "It looks like you really cleaned out those Evil Eyes from the treetops. Great work there—there's no sign of them down here in Sleepywood at all."

Casmilia gives a haughty sigh, as she pulls out her clipboard.

"Can you tell me where you found this hideout?"

"Oh, sure."

The ink from her quill bleeds into the paper as she agitatedly presses it to the parchment, "Go ahead, tell me."

"It's somewhere near the rocky wastelands of Perion," he mutters, "I can't tell you exactly where it is—I was running away from some monsters while I came across it."

She scrawls 'somewhere in Perion' onto her paper.

'_Well, that's helpful…_'

"Thanks," she wrinkles her nose as she sets off.

* * *

"So you managed to bring the Horny Mushroom Caps," he smiles, "Thank you for your hard work—ah… What was it now, you asked me something…"

Casmilia flings the sack at his feet.

"The prank?"

"Oh, yes, the prank the kid tried to pull."

He scowls at the very thought of it.

"He tried scratching something into the Mysterious Statue—I tried to tell him that it's bad to do stuff like that on public property, but I guess he didn't hear me at all. The Rememberer pulled him aside, as I said. Maybe he was the puppeteer you were looking for."

Casmilia's brow furrows, as her tongue sticks out in concentration.

"Well?" She urges, still etching those words into the paper, "Where is the statue?"

The sleeve of his robe droops as he points a calloused finger to the bottom of the hill.

"Down there," he intones.

She scowls, as she peers into the distance. There is nothing down there, save for an ashen-haired boy carrying a staff, stray civilians, and a hunk of mossy wood.

"That thing?"

"That is the Mysterious Statue of Sleepywood," he intones, "I'm sure it's embedded quite deeply into the statue, whatever he tried to write—unfortunately."

Casmilia wrinkles her nose.

'… _Ew._'

"Th-Thank you."

With those final words, she begins to sprint down the hill.

* * *

Eckhart, with his mouth growing dry, hears the clicking cogs of the door he just passed through begin to fade into the distance, now a muted buzz.

He watches as, before his eyes, the puzzle-block pieces making up the base and walls of the tower give way to nothingness. The only thing remaining in his sight are the floating cogs, fragments of lost time, the shining of sparkle of stars—only Goddess knows _what_ they are—and the feeling of falling, _flying_.

As the cogs float past him so slowly, the fall into infinity seems to endure time itself.

And that's when he sights it—the void unveils itself to reveal a bumpy, dark purple surface.

The end of the path of time.

His mind blanks at the very sight, the thud of his heart in his ribcage beating like the tick of a clock, growing slower, gaining momentum, as he soon realizes, with solemn finality, that each beat, each tick of the clock like a church bell, or a swing of a pendulum, may well be his last—

—Eckhart only begins to breathe again as he feels the vaguely familiar bumpy blocks of the floor under the soles of his feet.

Without impact, without pain, without death.

Only then, does he raise his hands, glance at his fingers, and flexes them under his gloves as the after-effects of adrenaline gets to him, the emptiness in the pit of his stomach an unfamiliar type of fear.

The fear of death.

'_Is this real?_'

"Don't worry."

Paying the feminine voice no heed, he gazes up at the nothingness and the sheer beauty of it all, in spite of everything.

"You're still alive," she remarks wryly.

"Am I, now?"

The woman can't help but laugh, as she pulls a bottle from the top of her shelf.

"You must be a first-timer here," she observes, "What exactly are you doing down here? We don't have many visitors at this time of year. Or… Well, _ever_, really."

Eckhart turns back to the woman, now swirling a white potion in her hand.

"Just a tip: if you're going to go down to the Warped Path of Time or the Forgotten Path of Time," the merchant smiles, "Then you might as well stock up, yes?"

"You won't be making a sale today," Eckhart coolly places his hands in his pockets, "I've got no money."

Toly frowns, as she places the bottle back on to the shelf. If she isn't going to make a sale, then she may as well make some small-talk.

"What brings you here today?" she asks again, "You're here just for shits and giggles?"

"No, no," he sighs, placing his hand in his pocket, "I'm here for a purpose, I assure you."

She laughs in spite of—or perhaps because of—his utter seriousness.

"Where are you off to?" she asks a second time.

Eckhart then produces Neinheart's mission sheet, objectives, details, rewards and all: not that he really _needed_ them anymore. Cursing the strategist's disgustingly neat handwriting—though not before cursing the man himself—he reads out the location of his former assignment.

"… Do you know where the '_Paradoxical Pathway_' is?"

* * *

Casmilia brushes—or, rather, pulls away—the vines encasing the strange, moist statue, covered in moss and cobwebs, and whatever else there was on what appeared to be an ancient artefact.

Grimacing, she bears witness to its face.

_Its face_.

Looking around shiftily, Casmilia makes sure none of the civillians are around to hear what she is yet to say—who would even _live_ here anyway?

"I can't even tell if it's laughing or crying …" She muses aloud rather loudly—too loudly, "That face is so weird…"

She runs her hands over the mossy wood—though she has thick gloves on, she can't help but wince as her fingers run over things which are cold and slimy…

"There's got to be a drawing or something around here…"

Feeling crevices where there should be a rough, grainer surface, Casmilia gives a frown.

'_Can't see it,_' she thinks, sticking out her tongue, '_I need to turn it around a bit…_'

"Ungh…"

Casmilia presses against the statue, hoping that her strength wouldn't splinter it—her gloves would be ruined!

"Almost…"

_Skid, skid_…

"… There…"

'_There's writing on the statue,_' she grits her teeth, '_What does it say?_'

"Hah!"

The statue, in all its mouldy, icky glory, reveals the writing etched on to the back of it—the carvings still fresh, albeit damp from the humidity.

'_The password is XXXXXX is a Genius Puppeteer!_'

Pulling out her notepad—not before wiping her hands on a couple of stray leaves—with a frown, she scrawls it down.

"Password…?"

She stows her clipboard away, the last of the information written upon the paper, the ink on the pages still wet.

"That sounds like it means something, doesn't it…"

Smirking, she leaves the statue upturned, as she makes her way to the entrance of Sleepywood.

'_Perhaps the person who left that password isn't a genius puppeteer after all…_'

"Who leaves their password written on the back of a statue?!"

The question goes unanswered as she lets out a wicked laughter, as she makes her way to the Six Path Crossway one last time.

* * *

His steps oddly quiet as his cloak billows out behind him, as he goes deeper into the darkness—the ominous stench of darkness, madness and the smell of 18th century wine twinging someone's breath is what brushes past him, whispering his fate to him in all its deathly splendour.

Eckhart wrinkles his nose.

* * *

_Such a bold declaration, perhaps a farce, is what sets her cheeks on fire._

"_Wh-What did you say?!"_

_The boy stays stone-faced, as she places a protective arm over herself._

"_I said let's get—"_

_In spite of herself, the young magician almost spills her half-melted red bean sundae, landing on her backside with a wince._

"_Don't you have any idea what it means to__…"_

* * *

"Anyone home?"

It is a mockery, for he already knows the answer.

* * *

_With these words, the twelve year-old frowns._

"_Of course I know what it means to get married," he ruffles his hair, "What do you take me for, huh? Socially retarded?"_

'_Oh, _yes, _definitely,' Oz suppresses a smile._

"_I-It should mean…"_

"… _That we should love each other and spend the rest of our days together," he finishes for her, "I know that. Everyone knows that."_

_The red-head blinks._

"_Yes, you might know that getting married means that we should love each other," she frowns, inquisitive, as always, "But what does love mean to you?"_

_A pause, as he places his finger over his chin._

_They all know what exactly that abstract concept—_love_—means from the countless books, the movies, and even the dictionary._

_And yet—_

"_Well?" Oz presses._

* * *

The stench grows stronger, as he walks further in to the blackness, a limitless void black as far as the eye can see.

As he enters the depths of darkness, Eckhart knows, although without a thought on his mind, of what is to come.

* * *

"_It would mean," he finally declares, "That I would like the way you smile."_

_Intrigued, she raises and eyebrow, and listens further._

"_That I would like the way you laugh, the way you spill your red bean sundaes everywhere," he looks up to the cloudless sky. "I would like how you're so uncoordinated, and yet you know where you're going."_

_He glances at her, now._

"_I would like the way you put up with my judgemental, cynical ways, and even like me for it. I would _love_ you for it, Oz. I'd love _you_."_

_Although the pause—as she stares, and stares, and _stares_—only lasts a few seconds, it seems to last an eternity, or perhaps a little bit longer._

_Eckhart sighs, as he looks down again, picking at the dried grass._

"_I'm sorry," he mutters, "That was stupid."_

_Frozen, with her mouth agape, the only words that manage to stumble out of her mouth just to happen to be—_

* * *

No more are the days of childhood, when love meant sitting in the grass on the outskirts of Kerning City eating store-bought ice cream on blazing summer days that seemed to be infinite.

The air is silent, still, frigid.

Take it all away—the colour, the light; the sun, the sea, the sky, and their dreams, their hopes, their futures—and you are left with infinitesimal.

_The magic is gone._

"Was there any to begin with?"

"_**That's not for you to decide.**_"

* * *

Neinheart adjusts his monocle, as he looks her up and down.

"I take it that you've gathered all of the information about the puppeteer, yes?"

Casmilia, with a grin plastered across her childish features, gives a vigorous nod, her ponytails bouncing as she does so.

"Of course I have!" she squeals, "I can't believe I did it all by myself."

"Hmph," he takes the clipboard from her grasp, "This isn't a proper report. These are your notes."

Casmilia's smile turns into a frown as he shuffles through his cloak, producing a gold-trimmed scroll.

"Please compile all of your information into a single report for me."

Pursing her lips with a frown at the bemused smile hanging off his lips, she clasps tightly onto the clipboard, prying it from his hands with a small 'hmph', before sauntering off with a quill and several scrolls—other reports, surely—bunched in her arms…

* * *

Eckhart grimaces, having to shield his eyes from the barrage of light assaulting him.

"Who are you?" he calls out into the still-pallid room.

Met with silence, the masked man's eyes flutter open, as unforgiving darkness makes way to fluorescent blue, the buzzing of light behind what appears to be a rusted gate—what is it, a portal?—whirring to life.

"_**I knew that you were going to arrive, Eckhart.**_"

His figure, clad in a cloak collecting shadows, cobwebs and Goddess-knows-what-else jumps down from the top of the arch.

Eckhart lowers his arms only slightly, taking on a fighting stance.

'What_ are you?_' he feels the urge to add.

"How do you know my name?"

"_**You could say I know many, many things.**_"

Eckhart mentally cringes as he approaches, his light steps echoing through the vast room.

"Who are you?" He asks once more, fear choking his words.

Not caring enough to wait for an answer, Eckhart, with lightning-quick fingers and reflexes, flings an experimental throwing star at the man.

The shadow chuckles, evidently unhurt, answering with another question, "_**If I told you, then that would make this whole ordeal **_**that**_** much less exciting, wouldn't it?**_"

Eckhart clenches his fists, stepping back.

"_**Why are you asking all these questions, **_**child**_**?**_" He—_she_, or whatever _it_ is—gives a yawn, "_**You don't think I have better things to do?**_"

Eckhart narrows his eyes, "That's only because you're not answering any of them."

'_Do I really _want_ an answer?_'

"_**Fine. What do you want from me?**_"

For the third time, "_Who the hell are you?_"

Cloth is pulled, and then 'it' became a 'he'—a different person entirely, or perhaps not a person at all.

"_**I hope this answers your question.**_"

Eckhart gulps, shaking his head as he is scrutinised by those broken, _broken_ eyes.

"I've never seen you before."

His lips are pulled back into a mock smile, or perhaps a snarl, revealing a set of pointed teeth.

"_**There are many things you haven't seen.**_"

"Believe me," he retorts, reaching into his pouch again, "I've seen more than I care enough to know."

"… _**And?**_"

His voice is chide, mocking, as his eyes are fixed on his fingers. Even so, he makes no attempt to move—he simply stands and smiles, and observes.

"The destruction of the Maple World, I hope," he produces hwabis from his pouch, "Will not be one of those things."

Eckhart grits his teeth as he flings a throwing star—then two, then three—at the dark figure.

Each and every single one of them are flung into oblivion, forever firing at a single trajectory into the void surrounding them. He frowns—how has his aim failed him _now_, of all times?

The man stands still, as though stalling for time, a smile twitching at the edge of his lip.

Watching.

Waiting.

Observing.

He flings two more with lightning-quick fingers, and then another three, and then another couple from his belt…

Eckhart's pouch gets lighter and lighter, as he silently curses himself for not taking more balanced furies or ilbies from the vault in Ereve upon the revelation of his resignation.

'_What the hell is going on?!_'

Almost as though in answer, laughter erupts from Asmodius, as he lunges forward.

"_**Your little tricks won't work on me,**_" he pulls back his hand, narrowing his eyes.

Barely given the time to take a steely from his belt, Eckhart manages to take hold it in front of him as a dagger just in time—

"_**Didn't you hear what I said?**_"

Eckhart's eyes widen; he doesn't know whether it is from the claw-like hand now grasping at his throat, or that there is no pressure on his dagger. He twists it, and still, the man in front of him doesn't even so much as flinch.

'_Wh-What…_'

Before his brain can register the thudding in his chest or the cold sweat growing on his forehead, he gives a grunt as he is flung across the room, the previously reassuring bumps of the floor, letting him know he is still in the concrete, _real_ world—and is still alive—now jutting into his back.

"_**Eckhart, of night, the forsaken one, the outcast…**_" He chuckles morbidly, "_**I'm not surprised they sent **_**you**_**, of all people, on this expedition. It's like they **_**wanted**_** you to be killed.**_"

Eckhart feels the warmness trickling down his forehead, eyes half-lidded in pain.

"_**Actually, scratch that—I'm surprised the Shinsoo even bothered at all.**_ _** Apparently, the destruction of the world as we know it concerns the eradication of Cygnus, as well. Huh. Who knew?**_"

The man shrugs, as Eckhart pulls himself up and off the floor.

"_**Nonetheless, it makes a good scene to watch.**_"

Eckhart curls his fingers around the steely that had embedded itself in the floor.

"If you're going to put on a show of torturing me," he grits his teeth, twisting the blade into the ground as he uses it to hoist himself up, "Then I'm going to have to leave the stage."

"_**Running away, are you?**_"

He gulps. Feeling the lightness of his pouch, he decides this is one of his last, and his only chance; his only hope.

"_**Eckhart—the walker of night... Afraid of the dark! Haha! Oh, what a show**__**—**_this is a comedy, let me tell you…"

He wipes the blood from his eyelids, the last memory flickering through his mind taking over behind closed lids.

* * *

"—_Do you love me, Eckhart?"_

* * *

His jaw clenches.

"I have nothing to be afraid of."

The man stops laughing, though his face doesn't entirely fall into a deadpan.

"_**Prove it,**_" his eyes narrow, though his grin grows wider, "_**Why don't you?**_"

Asmodius swipes at the air in front of him, his clawed fingers creating a distinct _rip_ in the air surrounding them.

Eckhart takes a defensive step back.

"What are you…"

Soon enough, one by one, the plethora of throwing stars line up floating near his fingertips, as though a pull of a magnet, as they shoot through the void and in front of him.

He suppresses a smile at Eckhart's eyes widening, muscles visibly tensing.

"_**Usually, it'd be a bad idea for the antagonist to reveal their oh-so-ingeniously-intricate plans,**_" he sneers, presenting his findings, "_**But I should tell you that **_**some things**_** that fall asunder the depths of time and space **_**can**_** be retrieved.**_"

He raises his arms even higher, the throwing stars moving accordingly.

"_**Like material objects—other things can also be retrieved from these depths with more advanced forms of magic. Toying with time and the dimensions... It's just fascinating, isn't it? Magic is so much better—so much more enlightening—than studying poisons and how to throw stars. **__**No offense, Eckhart.**_"

Eckhart takes it without reproach, if he even takes in those words at all.

Shutting his eyes, he digs deep into his pocket of throwing stars. All but _three_ throwing stars is all he has left.

It will have to do.

'_It's all or nothing._'

"_**Try and leave the stage, Eckhart,**_" he mocks, "_**See if you can.**_"

For the first time since Eckhart had entered the path of time, he gives a triumphant smirk, while feigning confidence and the fact that his heart had long since dropped to the put of his stomach, taking the stars into the gaps between his fingers.

"Oh, I will," he takes a step back, "I will, old man."

The familiar, reassuring bubbling of mana in his veins is fleeting as adrenaline, as all three of the stars glow in a show of light as bright as it is deadly.

Eckhart sprints forward, his gritted teeth forming into a maniacal grin.

"_Avenger!_"

* * *

His eyes run over the words, smudged slightly from the dewy grasses she had leaned against, reading the report at lightning-fast speeds—an art he had mastered over his lifetime of working at reading paperwork…

"So, according to your report," he rolls the scroll up, "The unkempt child carrying around a doll everywhere seen around Sleepywood is, in fact, the Puppeteer. Correct?"

Casmilia give a curt nod, no smile hanging on her lips this time around.

"He was hiding himself in the confines of a hideout in Perion," he drones, "and roamed all over Victoria, controlling various monsters with his dolls."

Placing his fingers over his mouth pensively, he looks down at the child, a glint in his eye.

"We have located the enemy, Casmilia. You have done an excellent job."

"Th-Thank you?"

"We musn't hesitate much longer," his tone grows dark in all seriousness, "I want you to head over to the rocky wasteland in Perion, find the home of the puppeteer, and defeat him."

Casmilia's eyes light up.

"You can manage this on your own, Casmilia—you have the blood of the current chief Night Walker running through your veins, after all."

He gives a wistful smile.

"Come to think of it, Caspeona was very much a prodigy—perhaps you can prove you are much of the same."

"How can I go about doing that?"

His face falls to a deadpan once more.

"There seems to be a password blocking the entrance of the hideout—well, it's not much of a password since you have it right here in your report, anyway."

"But—"

"Run along, now," he shoos, "We haven't much time."

Casmilia turns away, making her way to the Knight's Chambers with a small bounce in her step—

"Casmilia?"

The girl whips around, eyes widened.

"Huh?"

A grin lights up Casmilia's features in spite of her confusion.

"It's really been a while, hasn't it?"

'_Oh God,_' a drop of sweat falls from his forehead.

"Hey," he wipes it away, with a fake laugh, "Pretty warm weather you have here in Ereve, huh—"

"_Andrew!_"

"Guh!" the air is knocked out of him as she pulls him into a hug—or, at least, she _tries_ to, as she tackles him to the floor…

"Oh, Goddess," she squeals, "I haven't seen you since that weirdo—what was his name again?—drove you away! How are you? What have you been doing? Have you—"

Already feeling the onset of a migraine, he pats her gently on the back as he gently tries to pry her away.

"I-I've been great," he smiles, though his eyes riddled with what appears to be considerable fear, "Haven't done much since I left you to kill bubblings and stuff all by yourself."

Casmilia feels her face growing slightly warm as he gives a laugh.

"I'll bet you're still picking bits of gel out from between the brass."

"Am not!" she stamps her feet for dramatic effect, "I got a pair of new knuckles and everything!"

Andrew mentally cringes as she makes a pout in response.

'_Please stop that,_' he feels the urge to bite out, '_It's not cute at all._'

"How have you been?" is what he—and his mastery of the art of small-talk—manages to mutter instead, "I heard Neinheart telling you to hurry. You got something important to do right about now?"

His gaze darkens considerably.

"Something to do with the Black Wings?"

Casmilia takes no notice, however.

"Yep!" she says blithely, "Neinheart just told me to eliminate the puppeteer. I wrote a report and everything! Aren't you proud of me?"

Andrew suppresses a laugh.

'_Telling someone to kill a child?_' a smile twitches at the edge of his lip, '_That strategist is a bit brash, isn't he? Though it's good that everything has fallen into place. And, besides…_'

* * *

_Andrew's eyes widened as he clasps onto the front of her shirt, bunching up the fabric in his fists as he pulls her up._

"_Cecelia!" he cries out, "Cecelia, wake up! This isn't funny!"_

_He shakes her—once, twice, three times more, and her warmth is still slowly diminishing under his fingers._

_Andrew grits his teeth, balling his fists as a growl bubbles at the back of his throat …_

'I can't lose you again._'_

_He slowly turns around to meet the other boy in the eye—the puppeteer's stare is vacant as he beholds the sight before him._

_Staring at everything and nothing, he seems as empty as the doll that only moves by his command; perhaps he is more or less the same, bound by the strings of the Black Mage… _

_Andrew lunges forward, pulling his fist back as he lets out a throaty roar._

"_Bastard!"_

* * *

Andrew narrows his eyes.

'_If it weren't for him…'_

"Andrew?"

Blinking, his head snaps up as he awakens from his small reverie.

"H-Huh?" He stammers, "What?"

"Is there anything wrong?" she tilts her head to the side.

Andrew shakes his head.

"You only just started as a knight," he says, "How are you able to carry out a job like that? Is it because your sister did something like—"

"—Not at all!" She chimes in proudly, "I know she's chief night walker right now, and everything, and that she was a prodigy, but maybe I can prove myself, too!"

Her eyes sparkle with such hope and mirth that Andrew can't help but stifle laughter: he has yet to meet anyone as ruthlessly—shamelessly—powerful as her sister.

Though, if she was really as powerful as she says she is; even more powerful than her sister…

Andrew gulps.

"Hawkeye will notice me in no time!" she continues, "And…"

'_And you won't see me as just a kid anymore,_' is the next thing she feels the urge to utter—though she keeps her lips sealed.

Andrew begins to dig through his front pocket, pressing his lips together.

'_Now,_' he urges himself, '_Do it now, before you screw things up._'

* * *

She stows her mirror back into her pocket, letting a sigh of relief as she is glad her mascara is no longer unceremoniously smudged over her cheek, as she saunters down the dark corridor.

Eleanor doesn't even bother taking in her surroundings, for she already knows what these halls offer—nothing.

Empty, and so bare, and so quiet.

Far too empty, and far too bare, for her liking. Though, it's not entirely quiet.

As she passes by a room, her ears prick up at the faint sound of a turning page, and the scratch of a pen against paper. Had she been anyone else, or had she passed by at any moment in time, she would not have picked up the soft sounds wafting through the door, cracked open only an inch.

'_Study,_' is the neat lettering of the sign that is stuck to the door.

Eleanor raises an eyebrow, as a cough sounds from the room—though her suspicions are not quite confirmed.

'_It can't hurt to find out, eh?_'

Eleanor opens the door so carefully, she only allows enough space for a small peep hole.

And there she finds him—unusually, he is poring over books, eyes narrowing over the letters scrawling across the page.

Eleanor doesn't even bother rapping on the door before she swings it wide open.

She gives a frown, as not even the clack of her heels against the hardwood floor is enough to snap him out of his concentration.

"Baroq?" She keeps her tone light.

He simply grunts in response, as she saunters to his side. Automatically, while he dips his quill in ink, he places his other hand over the textbooks sprawled over the desk defensively.

"Don't."

"Where'd you get all these books?"

"Somewhere."

Eleanor pries one from his grasp—though his expression is still blank, he swipes at the book in her hand, so vigorously.

"_Don't,_" he repeats, this time more menacingly.

"History of Ereve," Eleanor reads the gold leaf text embedded in the leather cover.

Just as she flips through the pages, flecks of dust flying from it, Baroq snatches it away from her.

"Now I've lost my page," he grumbles, as he flips through to find it again.

Eleanor places a hand on her waist, bangs falling away from her face as she reads the texts more closely. Like a child, she gives a cheeky grin.

"Doing a little research?"

"It's not any of your business," he makes sure his tone is curt, deliberate, "Go back to doing paperwork and whatever else you do."

Her scrutinizing gaze still rests on him—never moving, never changing.

"I said _go_."

His hand trembles as he clasps onto his quill the best he can, the scribbles becoming barely visible as they go farther across the page.

"You know," Eleanor smirks—_oh,_ she has him now, "When you're nervous, your handwriting gets really small."

She scrutinizes the page, with a smirk playing on her lips.

"You're a terrible liar, you know that, Baroq?"

* * *

"… Hey, speaking of your sister," he smiles, "Would you mind doing me a favour?"

Without caring enough to wait for an answer, he produces a glowering vial from his pocket.

"Deliver this to Caspeona."

"What?"

"And don't drink from it," he says sternly, "Got it?"

He coolly throws it towards her.

"Besides, nothing will happen to _you_ if you happen to drink it."

Casmilia, inwardly grimacing, barely catches it before it falls on to the floor, not bother to unclasp her hands to examine the vial before asking, "Then what will happen to my sister if _she_ drinks it?"

Andrew smirks, as he places a finger over his lips.

"That's a secret."

Casmilia frowns, "What?"

Before long, and without having received an answer, the thunder breaker simply stands and stares into her hands, slowly unclasping to reveal a glowering potion.

'_What is this?_'

She glances back up at Andrew, sprinting away, back to the vial, and then back to Andrew.

He huffs and puffs, as he makes his way to the dock.

'_Girls sure can be scary…_' Andrew wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he sprints lightly up the stairs.

* * *

Baroq sighs in defeat.

"It's what you've been telling me for the past couple of years," He says wryly, "I admit it now. I'm a horrible liar. Now what?"

Eleanor chuckles, as she wraps her arms around him from behind the chair, resting her chin on the crook of his shoulder.

"Who is it this time?"

Baroq, with a sigh, lifts his pen off the page.

"I don't know yet," he sighs, as he flips through the pages, "There's not much I can find. I mean, I can understand, given my specialty in magic, why they picked _me_, of all people…"

His pen clatters to the desk as he buries his face in his hands.

"But, Goddess... The _Order of Cygnus_? How do I gather information on _them_?" he says, "It's so much easier to steal identities when they're dead, y'know?"

Eleanor frowns, "What?"

"You can attend their funeral. Read their eulogies. Find old letters, photos, _memories_ that get delivered to their doorstep long after they're gone."

He clicks his finger with a grin.

"Then, all you need is a name."

His grin falters, as Eleanor simply continues to stare—like a cat, those sharp eyes ever brutal as she scrutinizes him.

"It's weird…" He says, "How I have taken so many identities, taken the form of several different people…"

Baroq pauses to give a sigh, eyes still glued to the paper.

"For all we know, I might not even be _Baroq_," he continues, "I don't even have an identity of my own."

He smiles that small smile of his, turning to meet her gaze.

"I change my name like I change a coat," he says, "Now, I've turned into so many people, taken on so many identities—stolen all these lives—that I can't even tell apart which one is the real me anymore. I'm not _entirely_ Baroq."

"But you only ever change your name and your appearance—"

"—Disguising yourself isn't so simple."

Eleanor blinks.

"Becoming someone else," he begins, "is so much more than wearing a different name and a different set of clothing, and maybe a wig."

Baroq shakes his head.

"You have to perfect it," he continues, "You have to become the person—_be_ the person that you aren't and never will be."

He lets out a sigh, no longer able to meet her gaze.

"And, in the end, I burn all the papers—passports, letters, documents, receipts—and any evidence that I had taken over someone's identity," he says, "I leave nothing behind. Not even a speck of dust—not a trace."

He shuts his eyes.

"I have to destroy it all," he says, "Because sentiment doesn't do well in our line of work, Eleanor."

"But sometimes, it _does_ do us good," she replies, "Being sentimental gives us hope, at least."

Baroq places his hand over Eleanor's, the sudden warmth startling her.

"I could be anyone."

He shakes his head.

"Let me rephrase that—I _am_ anyone."

Eleanor frowns, as he lets out a sigh.

He sighs, "I'm a thief, Eleanor. I stole all these lives, these identities—took them upon myself… I _am_ them. I don't even know who's _Baroq_ anymore."

Eleanor wraps her arms around him tighter—it is neither constricting, nor stifling, but, rather, it is a comfortable closeness.

"Even if nothing else," she says, "To me, you are yourself."

A pause stretches out between them, the warmth of her embrace—something that seemed but a distant memory—enveloping him.

Her smile is melancholy.

"To me, you are Baroq," she says, "Master of Disguise."

_His_ smile is full of guile.

"You might say that I'm a terrible liar," Baroq tilts his head away from her, using his free hand to push her head away from him, "But you're even _worse_ at hiding your intentions."

Eleanor's lips turn downwards ever so slightly, as he pulls her arms away from his shoulders.

"Is it wrong to be worried about _you,_ too?" her arms return to her sides.

"Sorry about rambling at you and all," he says, "But I guess you have a right to be worried about me."

"Bavan isn't hungry again, is he?" she larks, "He'd eat _you_ if they sent you out to deliver his lunch again."

Baroq's smile is weak, as he buries his nose in those books once more. Though he says nothing,

Eleanor places a hand over his shoulder, to which he clears his throat.

"Well, if I'm going to get through this," he gestures to his notes, "Then I'll be needing a little lubrication."

He nods his head towards the papers, books and endless history books, before looking back at her. Eleanor's nose is wrinkled.

"What am I? Your slave?" she crosses her arms, "Goddess. Just get the girls to make some coffee for you. They can't be _that_ stupid, I'm sure."

Eleanor shoves him in the shoulder.

"Better yet, make your own damned coffee."

Baroq laughs.

"That'd be a good idea," he smiles, "But the girls are on a mission, and the last time I made coffee the machine decided to implode, or something."

"What?"

"What?" Baroq quips, "You didn't figure out why we got a new coffee machine the other week? Everyone could smell the smoke for a week afterwards…"

Eleanor rolls her eyes.

"I'm not talking about the coffee machine, Baroq."

"Then what are you talking about?" He asks, "The girls? That mission?"

"_What_ mission?"

* * *

The lights are on.

The curtain is raised.

The cameras are rolling.

_The stage is set. _

Eckhart's eyes open.

'_**Let the show begin,**_' his lips curl into a repulsive grin.

Laughter has never sounded so cynical.


	24. Scorpion

**Chapter 24**

(_**A/N**_) _Warning: excess of bold and italics. You have been warned._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Down the ladders toward the Six Path Crossway, Reina steps down her ladder slowly—half out of apprehension, half from the thought that she would step on Cecelia's head.

"You know what, Cecelia?"

"What?"

"I wish I was like you, sometimes."

Cecelia can only blink in response.

"I don't see how someone can torture themselves like that," she says in the flattest voice she can manage, "Why do you say that? How do you want to be like me?"

Subconsciously, Reina looks at the ring on her finger again.

"Leaving the past where it belongs," she watches it gleam from the sun peeking through the clouds, "Behind you."

Cecelia shrugs, as she sits on the edge of the dock, the Six Path Crossway but a few steps away.

"Let's take a break," she runs a hand through her hair, scratching the back of her head, "I've had way too much of this bullshit to walk any further to… Where ever the hell we're going. I don't even know anymore."

Reina, nodding and silently agreeing, sits down beside her, legs swinging over the ledge.

"How do you move on so quickly?"

Cecelia lets out a laugh.

'_I don't,_' is her instinctive reply, '_I never do._'

"I have no time for all that _what-if_ or _if-only_ bullcrap," she says instead, "It reminds me of too much."

Cecelia looks at Reina again, "How come you _can't_ do that?"

"Do what?"

"Move on. It's easier said than done, but…"

Reina is silent with contemplation.

"I don't know," she finally answers, "It is hard for me, letting go of what was once important to me. Perhaps the notion that there is nothing important to me today except for the things that remind of when I was a little happier. When the world was so much more simple."

"This world, Reina," Cecelia sighs, "Is a hell of a lot simpler than the world _I_ live in."

The Maple World—a world full of pixels, programs, monsters that can't entirely kill you (in most cases: mostly when you aren't in the game itself), text bubbles and boxes, all mixed together with a hint of nostalgia…

Cecelia decided, no matter how much sentimental value she and other people hold for it, does not constitute as a _world_, as such—

"—How?"

Cecelia jolts back at the sudden sharpness in her tone.

"How can you say that being thrown into perpetual war for some_thing_ or some_one_ that most people doubt even _exists_ be so _simple_?"

She has nothing left—even the world she walks in, the world she knows, the world that she ears, breathes and _lives_ in…

"How can the non-existence—the lack of purpose of life here—be simple?"

Is the Maple World really a lie?

Is it really all that simple?

It can't be so simple.

It can't be a lie.

It can't, it can't, _it can't_…

"It can't, because I don't want to believe that it is," she says with that resolution of hers, though the tears in her eyes begin to show.

The taller girl inwardly flinches, placing her hands in front of her defensively.

"Look, Reina, I'm sorry—"

"You don't know loss."

Cecelia gives her a look.

"What?" she frowns.

'_Where the hell did that come from?_'

"Do you have any idea what it is like," she lowers her gaze, "To lose someone so close to you?"

* * *

_Kneeling by the edge of the river with stained cheeks—whether those blinding droplets that stream down her face are raindrops or tears, she doesn't _want_ to know—Reina's fingers tremble, eyes widening, breath hitching in her throat as she reaches forward with an outstretched arm—_

'—H-Hana?_'_

_No matter how far she reaches, even if she pulls her up onto the river bank and screams—and screams and _screams_ at her to wake up, that it isn't funny, that it isn't real—she cannot breathe life back into the floating body in the middle of the river._

_And still, she mutters the most mundane observation of all, looking up to the sky for some trace of hope, of resolution._

"_It is raining, Hana."_

_Grey, pallid and pouring rain, there is no sun._

_There never is._

_And, as far as she is concerned, before that very day, before that very moment, that second when she smiled at her, there never was any to begin with._

'You will always be my sister._'_

* * *

"Do you have any idea what it's like to lose all trace of happiness, and be reminded, whenever you look out a window on a cold, rainy Winter afternoon, that it was all just flushed away?"

The sky is as grey as that very day.

And yet…

"… It's mocking me," she sighs mournfully, "The weather. There is sun, but it is only peeking from behind the clouds, hidden, murky—"

"—Stop that weather bullcrap."

Reina only looks toward Cecelia because of the waver at the end of her voice.

"Don't think _you're_ the only one who's lost something," her voice stings with venom, "What makes you so special, huh?"

Cecelia clenches her fists.

"_I_ get warped into a world which I thought didn't exist beyond the pixels of my computer screen…" She, too, looks up to the sky, as though for some form of resolution, the tears hot in her eyes.

"Then a creepy-ass ten year-old with mouldy hair decides to drug me—or _whatever_ the hell Francis does to 'recruit' people, that little good-for-nothing weirdo—and brings me to a hideout in the middle of freaking _nowhere_…"

Breathing heavily, though still not letting the tears fall free—_crying is stupid_, she tells herself, again and again and _again_—she pulls up Reina by the hair, her desperate, widened eyes boring in to hers.

Reina is unable to tear away, mouth parted in a silent scream of shock and pain.

"I get repeatedly beaten up by some old hag who spikes my food with something that tastes like plastic and claims to be able to cheat God—_Goddess_, whatever you batshit people call it; it doesn't matter because it _doesn't exist_—and then forced to practice voodoo cult things…"

She begins to laugh maniacally, despairingly.

"… And now I'm stuck with the likes of _you_. You, oh-so-special _Reina_, whinging about how the sun isn't shining, about how you'll never find your past and crying to your dead sister for help that you'll never get because she's fucking _six feet under_!"

Reina is flung face-first into the dock with a small squeal.

Her laughter grows louder, as she shouts it to the world, to the sky, not caring who is watching—not caring about eyes fixated on her trembling form. Just her, _Cecelia_, fixed inside her mad, _mad_ world of despair and desperation crashing down on her, slowly killing, destroying, eating at her from the inside.

"You see, Reina," she smiles, yet she does not smile at all, "My parents. I once knew what it was like to be able to come home and have them ask me '_Cecelia, how are you?_', and I'd still tell them to bugger off even if they really wanted to hear what their daughter had to say, and I'd always smile because it meant they cared."

Reina simply watches, mouth agape, as this girl tumbles further into a void of madness.

"And now I call my mother 'that woman I see sometimes'," she says darkly, "My father is 'that guy I see _never_'."

* * *

"… _I figured out the hard way that, when you smile, Cecelia…" _

_Cecelia does not flinch as her friend reaches forward to pull her lips up into a smile with her fingers._

"_Then it's all okay, "Amber tilts her head to the side with a smile hanging off her lips, "Nothing can go wrong when you smile."_

_Cecelia's head droops downward, artificial smile still on her lips, the hot sting of tears still in her eyes._

"_So if you act like it's all okay," Amber continues, "If you slap a grin on your face, then the world just won't give a damn."_

"Believe me, I _do_ know loss."

* * *

'_I can't just slap a grin on my face, and pretend to not give a damn,_' she shivers, '_Because none of this is funny. Because there is nothing to pretend to laugh about._'

Her voice is barely above a squeak, as she mutters words she never thought possible—no, not for many years, if ever.

"And I'm afraid, Reina," the quietness of her voice says more than she ever meant it to, "I'm as afraid as you are."

Her face is now blank, paled with an emotion she cannot describe lurking at the pit of her stomach, acid rising to her mouth.

"Of what?"

Cecelia scans the horizon, taking in the view of shrooms swarming the bottom of the tree trunks, flowers colourful in spite of the dreary weather, baby grasses still a bright lush green…

Disgustingly real—disgustingly perfect, yet flawed in its shortcomings.

"I'm afraid that I don't know any more than you do."

Reina frowns.

"What? Why?"

Cecelia looks at her.

"Because MapleStory isn't just a game anymore."

* * *

Holding her mask in place, the chief night walker feels the breeze ruffle her hair, as she lets out a quiet, indignant—and thankfully undetected—snort, brow twitching.

"_Gh…_"

"Hey!"

A child calling from below the tree is what breaks her from her alter reality. If not for her missions and training requiring her be able to sleep as still as physically possible, her nap would have ended for other reasons entirely.

In spite of her grogginess, she gives a yawn before mumbling, "Casmilia?"

The night walker removes her mask ever so slightly, eyes widening at the sight of her, hands on her knees, hunched over as she pants, the vial still between her fingertips.

"C-Caspeona," she manages to pant out. She looks up into the branches, managing to brush away the bangs stuck to her forehead with a weary smile, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Caspeona stands up on her tree branch, smiling for a first time in a long time—perhaps too long.

"Casmilia!"

She jumps down from the tree branch with notoriously impossible speed, and, before Casmilia can even sight her, she is pulled into a hug.

"Goddess, I was getting worried about you," she laughs, "I was beginning to get worried about not hearing back from you… For how long?"

Casmilia laughs, though she still raises an eyebrow before she returns the hug.

"I-I think it's been something like a week or two," she stammers.

She shuts one eye with a smile, as her hair is ruffled.

"Well," Caspeona mutters, "You can't blame me for being a little worried about my baby sister, could you?"

The night walker places her hands on her hips, as she looks proudly upon her sister, looking her up and down.

"You've grown taller."

"Thanks."

"Is it from having to run around doing all those missions?" she larks, "Don't worry, they aren't compulsory after you become an official knight. It gives you something to do when you're not training, though—an objective."

Casmilia hums in agreement, reaching into her pocket.

"So what are you doing here? I heard you were off on your first official battle, after having finished all those missions—"

"I came here to deliver you something."

Caspeona appears downtrodden—if not downright disappointed—at this revelation. Perhaps nobody wanted to visit her after all…

"Well," she presses, "What is it?"

Casmilia produces the vial from her pocket.

"I was told to deliver this to you."

Caspeona raises an eyebrow, as she takes the vial in with her thumb and index finger, narrowing her eyes at it as she swirls the liquid.

"What is it?"

Casmilia shrugs.

"I was just told to give it to you, that's all. I guess it's from a reliable source."

'This can't be poison,' Caspeona decides, placing a hand on her chin as she raises the bottle to the sun, 'I work with those all the time, and I can't recognise its contents…'

The strange substance glowers in its pure golden glory—as she uncorks the bottle, a light yellow gas escapes from the top.

'And it's not even the right colour for a poison,' she observes, 'Poison gas is white or purple…'

Unthinkingly, and unblinkingly, overtaken by sheer temptation and curiosity, Caspeona wafts the smell towards her—

* * *

_A silver-haired child gives a cough, as she rises, covered in cracking blackness, from the debris._

_The empty windows, the gaping roof, the ladder of soot creeping up the wall, and the scent that overtakes her makes her nose wrinkle. The scent of plaster, of charred wood, and of memories gone up in smoke is still fresh—_

* * *

—Someone else's tears fall down her cheeks.

Those memories—they are not even her own. They are that of people whose faces she cannot associate with a name.

Then again, their voices, nor their tears, are not something she is unacquainted with.

'_Why am I crying?_' she places a hand over her mouth.

"Does it smell that bad?"

Caspeona looks back to her younger sister, with a hint of laughter lingering her eyes in spite of the tears, and in spite of everything.

She screws the cork back on.

The house, the gaping roof, the sky, tinted grey-black with madness and the smell of burnt flesh, while she had never sighted anything like that in her entire life, was something that brought about profound sadness within her.

"Who'd you get this from?"

"Andrew."

And now, instead of fear, her eyes widen with fury and what she recognises as maniacal fear.

"_What?!_"

"Andrew said he had something to deliver to you."

"From _where?_"

"I didn't ask."

Caspeona drops the bottle to clasp onto her sister's shoulders.

"Why would he want to give me such a potion?"

Casmilia grimaces as her grip around her shoulders, with those clawed nails, nearly draw blood.

"I-I don't even know what it is," she stammers, "But he told me not to drink it. And to deliver it to you."

"Now, how did Andrew even get into and through the barrier to Ereve?"

And now Casmilia's expression, once again, mirrors her sister's.

"H-How..."

"This is dangerous, Casmilia," she says sternly, "I will take it to Neinheart for testing. He will give it to Shinsoo to determine what it is—after all, she has profound knowledge over all areas and over all things."

'_That much, we are taught…_'

The thunder breaker nods, as Caspeona finally loosens her grip around her shoulders.

"Go on your mission, now," she pats her shoulders gently with a smile, "Good luck, and stay away from Andrew."

Casmilia frowns at the last instruction.

"Who _are_ you, my mother?"

* * *

_The smell of madness, death, darkness, and despair—_

* * *

—Caspeona shakes her head.

"I sense there is something more sinister to him than what appears."

"What are you on about?"

Caspeona's glare grows ever darker.

"Did you hear the story about the scorpion and the water buffalo, Casmilia?"

Casmilia narrows her eyes, "What about it?"

"Just in case you've forgotten _exactly_ what I'm trying to say," her older sister says, "There was once a scorpion and a water buffalo who meet on the edge of a stream…"

Casmilia groans, burying her face in the middle of her palm.

"Caspeo—"

"—The scorpion asks the water buffalo to carry it across the river, as it will die if it crosses alone," she continues nonetheless, "Then the water buffalo says to the scorpion, '_How do you know you won't sting me?_'"

She pauses.

"And then scorpion tells the water buffalo: '_Because if I sting you, then we will both drown._'"

Casmilia doesn't even bother to feign interest, crossing her arms.

"_Then_ what?"

The night walker hushes her.

"You've heard this story before," she says quietly, "Mother keeps telling us. Can you tell me what happens when they get halfway across the river?"

"The scorpion stings the buffalo."

A triumphant smirk creeps up her face.

"And then what does the scorpion say when the buffalo asks '_Why did you sting me, when it will only kill us both?_'"

Casmilia pauses, perhaps in defeat, perhaps in introspection.

"He says," her younger sister sighs, "'_because I am a scorpion._'"

"And that is the true nature of scorpions, Casmilia," Caspeona crosses her arms, "That is the reason why certain people exist."

Casmilia swirls around on her heel, sticking up her nose.

"What have you got to say to that, sis?"

She only glances over her shoulder in contempt.

"Andrew isn't a scorpion," she hisses.

'_You with your venomous lies and your poisonous throwing stars…'_

She doesn't even turn back to wave, to say goodbye.

'You_ are the scorpion._'

Caspeona sighs, as she clambers up her tree again.

"_I wasn't talking _specifically_ about Andrew_."

She shuts her eyes.

'_The forces of darkness are quickly approaching…_'

* * *

'_Ugh…_'

Eckhart can no longer feel the bumps of the floor jutting into his back, beneath the soles of his shoes—nor can he feel coldness, nor warmth, nor fear.

Just nothingness.

Emptiness giving way to more emptiness, and the occasional voice ringing out in the void.

"_**Hello, Eckhart.**_"

Eckhart, had he the ability to do so, would have widened his eyes.

'_Wh-What…_'

"I'd explain to you, but it would make this whole ordeal so much more fun if you don't—"

He tries to raise his arm to feel his face, although he feels and sees nothing.

'_Don't screw with me, old man,_' he thinks, or would have said, '_What have you done to me?_'

His thoughts unable to reach any limbs he can speak of, the darkness gives way to a small, bright light—the outside world.

"_**Finally…**_" The man says with an ever slight twinge of relief, washing through his voice, "_**Finally, I have eyes that see…**_"

Eckhart feels himself—or, well, whoever he is, now—glance around the room, only watching on without emotions, as the man laughs and smiles.

Now, the sun, the sea, the sky, is not his to see.

"_**I usually see things, Eckhart—with my broken eyes—that are beyond our control,**_" he says, "_**But I could not see you coming. Yet I thank you.**_"

The man laughs—not derisive, not piercing. Just _laughter_, pure and simple.

"_**For many, many years, Eckhart,**_" he says, reaching out a hand that is not his, flexing gloved fingers, "_**I could only observe.**_"

'_Observe?_'

"_**I was an observer, Eckhart,**_" he says wistfully, with a hint of bitterness, "_**I could only so much as **_**watch**_** from afar, from the top of the gate—**_**watch**_** as people laugh, **_**watch**_** as people smile.**_"

Watching from the top of the portal, into the void of the Paradoxical Pathway, he shuts his eyes, and everything gives way to darkness for Eckhart once more.

"_**I could only **__**hope that curling my lips upwards, and letting out a breathy '**_**ha, ha, ha**_**' from my parted lips would bring about that same joy that rang in my ears whenever I heard it.**_"

He pauses, as he lays himself across the top of the top of the portal, leg swinging off the side.

"… _**It didn't.**_"

Eckhart makes a sound that sounds remotely like a sigh, before the shadow—now a man—continues.

"_**And**_ _**you know what, Eckhart?**_"

'_What?_'

"_**When I took a small peek through your memories, Eckhart,**_" he says contemplatively, "_**I realised that we are more or less the same—observers, romantics.**_"

'_Observer, I understand,_' he scoffs, '_But _romantic_?'_

"_**Not in the sense of a boy giving a girl flowers, or people holding hands as they go out to watch the sunset,**_" he gives a smirk, "_**Or sitting outside Kerning City eating store-bought ice-cream trying to explain what love means.**_"

Eckhart inwardly flinches.

"_**As romantics… We want to shape the world,**_" he continues, "_**In one way or another—we think on the scale of hundreds of thousands of years. Beyond our lifetimes.**_"

He pauses, narrowing his eyes as he sits up again, legs swinging in and out of the portal, making a buzzing static sound.

"_**Romantics are either heroes or villains,**_" he places a hand on his chin, "_**And our downfall, Eckhart, was trying to be neither.**_"

'_So I made a mistake leaving the Order of Cygnus?'_

"_**Precisely, my boy. We tried to sit on the sidelines. We're destined to make change, not observe it.**_"

There Eckhart sits—or floats, or whatever he does—in the void of his own mind, his own body out of reach, out of his control.

'_What was your mistake?_'

"_**I tried to forsake the darkness that I had already thrown myself into,**_" he says spitefully, "_**Just for the sake of proving something. Just like you.**_"

Once again, Eckhart flinches.

'_I still don't fully understand why I'm here._'

"_**I feel like we're kindred spirits.**_"

Silence wrings out, in exasperation, in disbelief, in horror.

"_**When I went through your memories, your life, your **_**everything**_**, as I overtook your body,**_" he begins, "_**It's like we're the same person. Of course, I cannot honestly say that I've never met anyone like you before… But it gets lonely down here, you know?**_"

He looks up to the night sky, to the stars, to the fragments of time and the ghosts of what was—and what never will be—that can never be retrieved.

"_**Since I took on a—well, **_**your**_**—physical form,**_" he smiles sadly now, "_**I realise that this place smells, looks, and **_**feels**_** like sadness.**_"

Silence stretches out between them.

'_You said you were waiting for me._'

"_**I lied.**_"

'_Hey, that's _my _job._"

"_**Keh,**_" he gives a small snort of laughter, "_**With those broken eyes of mine, I could foresee things—you weren't in my visions.**_"

'_Why?_'

"_**Because, by rebelling against Cygnus, against the will of Goddess, you have also changed your fate, and therefore **_**he**_** is saved.**_"

'He? _What?_'

"_**Ah, yes… There is one person who was fated to be my vessel—a martyr, living solely on false hopes and promises that can never be,**_" he explains, "_**People that don't really exist—people I myself have created with the power of eternity at my fingertips. Defying Goddess herself, altering fate.**_"

'_You_ created _someone?_'

"_**Yes.**_"

'_What is his name?_'

Asmodius smiles.

* * *

His ears prick up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice—yet it is not a voice he is unacquainted with…

The boy leans against the trunk of the tree, careful that his breathing is unheard, that the _squelch_ of what was once a dry leaf, or the _crack_ of a tree branch, will detract their attention…

With a smile, he simply listens on.

* * *

Eleanor clutches on to the collars of his robes, eyes widened in a way reserved only for battlefields: that way that frightened Baroq and most everyone else, for the sheer rage and _power_—power for vengeance, power to destroy—that they held.

"Where are they, Baroq?"

Baroq winces as her nails dig into his skin, as she pulls him in closer.

"_Where are they?!_"

Now, he has no choice but to look into her maniacal eyes.

"I-I…"

* * *

Cecelia raises an eyebrow, "What?"

"You think this is actually a world that exists, that is a world beyond what is controlled by the ones in your world?"

Cecelia, in spite of everything, begins to listen attentively at something—something entirely _different_—about her voice.

"As long as I am living, here," Reina continues, "In the Maple World, with the truth you have fed —quite literally—to me, the truth I would rather not bear…"

In spite of her frailty, she attempts to pull Cecelia up and off the floor, but to avail. Instead, she crouches down beside her.

"… As long as I am here, I, even though I have a name to be called by, a mouth to speak, eyes to see, ears to hear, and am every bit like you in the way that we both have a body and are very much human beings…"

She feels the phantom of her former strength—her former self that had no time to cry, because the sky did it for her—return, she clutches onto Cecelia's hand.

"Cecelia, unlike you, I do not have an identity. I do not exist—"

"You'll always exist," she raises her voice, "There's no way that you don't."

Reina lets out a bitter laugh.

"As long as I walk along the ground, I exist?" she says, "As long as you can see me, I exist? As long as I have no purpose other than to play out the contorted play people from your world, then I do not really exist."

"You live in a different reality," she says tiredly, "That's all there is to it."

"A reality controlled by the happenings in yours."

Cecelia lets out a sigh, "Do you need me to slap you again?"

"I know I was wrong to say that you do not know loss," Reina says, "But… We know different kinds of loss. You don't know what it's like to know that your entire life is a lie, do you?"

Cecelia is silent.

"What's gotten into you?"

"Excuse me?"

Cecelia smirks.

"You're not crying."

* * *

Eleanor's fist hits the table, the rage overriding the pain as she grinds her fist into the papers.

"It was our job to watch over them, Baroq," she hisses, "That was our _one_ mission. We were assigned _nothing_ else."

Baroq lets out an imitation of a laugh, feigning what seems to be nonchalance, "We ended up delivering food everywhere, right?"

"Only because the rest of our time was _meant_ to be spent filling out paperwork," her voice grows louder with each enunciated word, "And looking after a suicidal teenager who refuses to speak a word, and a crazy one that speaks to _herself_!"

"We managed to convince them for long enough, didn't we?"

* * *

Reina's eyes widen.

What makes her cry, when there is no real reason to?

Perhaps it's the idea that she knew—although she knew nothing except the day she was retrieved from the darkness—that she was not alone in this world, and that there is no reason to depend on others, to cry on someone's shoulder…

What makes her _stop_ crying?

Yes, what is it about the idea of other peoples' weakness that makes her stronger? The fact that she could help them, the fact that _she_ could be the shoulder to cry on?

"Because, in the end, Cecelia…" Reina gives a broken smile, "… Cecelia, we're alone."

"Alone?"

Reina nods.

"Because, no matter how many relationships we have, no matter how many people smile at us when we pass them by… In the end, at the _very_ end, we are all alone. And, in my case, I will cease to exist, because there is no purpose for me beyond the task I have set out to do…"

"… Not necessarily, Reina."

Reina gives her a look—blankness, confusion.

"You might say that you don't exist because you think you think you're a bit of programming, a drawing, or maybe someone in the same situation as me…"

* * *

… Possibilities endless, Eleanor lets him go, turning away, her breaths still heavy.

While he faces the same likelihood, the same fate, the same consequence, he is still able to laugh—like life is a perpetual joke, like there is everything to smile and laugh at…

"How important could this mission be, anyway?" He quips.

While Eleanor would have found this, in any other situation, comforting or even endearing, the falsity of his laughter ringing in her ears leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

"Where will we go, Baroq?"

"What?"

"We always said that we wanted to escape," she glances at him over her shoulder, "We always said that we wanted to be free—remember?"

Baroq nods in response.

Eleanor stares forward again, as though finding patterns in the bleached white walls.

"We, the members of the Black Wings…"

* * *

"… _You are all the Black Feathers that make up the Black Wings—the Black Wings that will fly him into victory, and eternal glory."_

_Orca grins from high up in the podium, brandishing her staff._

"_Remember, everyone," she repeats the words as old as time itself, "What the Black Mage promises, he must give…"_

* * *

Eleanor shuts her eyes.

"… Black feathers, that's what they all said."

"Yeah?"

"Let's say we _are_ black feathers. If we're simply plucked from the black wings—_his_ black wings…" She drawls, "We'll be free, but we'll always be feathers. Floating in the wind; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, because nothing can cloak a black feather except darkness—"

"—We'll manage."

Without turning around, without blinking, and without hesitation, she mutters, "How?"

Baroq leans back in his chair, blowing a tuft of hair away from his face.

"We'll go back to Magatia," he offers, "Continue our studies in alchemy, in science, and everything else we missed out on when it all happened…"

"How?" she says again.

Baroq looks up at her, her eyes no longer filled with desperation, but that usual hopelessness and hollowness that, in spite of its sparseness, seemed to occupy her day and night.

"How will we go back to Magatia? How we will be able to study again?" Her voice is sharp, "How will we earn our old lives back when we took up this job where there _is_ no turning back, when we don't _deserve_ our old lives back?"

Eleanor throws question after question at him, knowing full well that she will not receive an answer, or, worse yet, he will say—

"—We'll manage."

Now, the anger and the magic sear through her veins, fizzling at the ends of her fingertips, eyes alight with rage.

"We will not manage if we are fired because of our incompetence, Baroq!"

He flinches at her response.

"We will not survive in the real world—a feather floating through the wind, while free, will get caught somewhere where it will not get out."

"If you want my honest opinion," he mutters barely audibly, "We can't go on like this."

"We can't _not_ go on like this."

Eleanor buries her face in the middle of her palm, roughly running a hand through her hair.

"We have a list full of _countless_ heinous crimes—plunder, pillage, murder—a weight upon our backs that can't be removed. It'll be impossible to clear our names."

"We won't have to use our _own_ names, will we?"

Eleanor pauses in contemplation, in realisation.

"I'll get some new people," his grin is genuine, this time, "We could attend their funeral. Read the eulogies."

Perhaps this will work.

Perhaps they _will_ manage.

"We can open up the letters that arrive by their doorstep, read their mail, look at all the pictures…"

The same brightness in his eyes is now emulated in Eleanor's, and, with a pause, followed by the click of his fingers, Baroq gives a laugh.

"And then, all we'll need is a name."

* * *

"But so long as there is someone—family, friends, just _one person_, at least—to remember you when you're dying, and after you have died," she continues, "Then, to at least one person, you have not only existed: you have lived."

"But I live in this world that isn't—"

"I'll remember you, Reina."

* * *

"See? It's not so bad, after all, if we get fired."

"But what if we get killed?"

* * *

Cecelia says nothing more as she stands up.

* * *

And then the grin is wiped off his face as quickly as it had appeared.

He sighs, "Why can't we just eliminate the resistance, and be done with it? Why go through this whole process just for this one objective?"

* * *

"We've gotta get moving," she says with her usual vigour, "Hopefully we'll find a place to stay that's probably better than…"

She shudders at the mere thought of it.

"Better than the _hellhole_."

* * *

A pause, a long stretch of silence, rings through the room, only broken by a crackle of wry laughter.

"We don't know _who_ or _where_ the Resistance is."

"We can find them if we try."

"We're lazy."

Baroq's jaw tightens, and Eleanor's chuckle grows louder, darker, and ever so slightly more brooding than before.

"Of course, like the utterly normal person I am," she crosses her arms, her laughter cheerless, "I have a personal vendetta against doing what we're planning to do for the sake of finding _one_ group of people."

* * *

"Say, Reina," Cecelia scratches the back of her head with a yawn, "Do you know why we were kept there for so long?"

The girl shrugs her shoulders wordlessly.

* * *

"It's because it's the _status quo_," she spits, "Because we've been doing this for _years_."

* * *

Cecelia returns the shrug, thinking nothing more of it.

"… It can't be anything _that_ bad, can it?"

Reina lets out a laugh, "Indeed."

* * *

… Baroq knits his brow into a frown of utter confusion.

"I still don't understand the entire point of '_recruiting_' people for this project."

* * *

The girls, with newfound confidence, continue climbing down to the Six Path Crossway, oblivious to the darkness—the absolute _perfectness_—surrounding as they continue to clamber down the ladder, the air too calm, too still, too quiet.

And they continue to smile, laughter ringing through the docks in spite of the darkness, the clouds cloaking the sunlight, and the rustle of something entirely obscure in the bushes growing louder…

* * *

Eleanor pinches her nose bridge, shutting her eyes with a sigh, as the weight of her words can no longer sit, still, frigid, in the air surrounding.

"Who else is going to repopulate the town of Edelstein once it's been destroyed?"


	25. The First of January

**Chapter 25**

(_**A/N**_) _Internet cookies for whoever gets the reference in the title. OK, well, the chapter name is very, _very_ loosely based off said reference, but…_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Francis lets a small smile play on his lips as he opens his eyes.

'_This is all going according to plan…_'

_Bang!_

The strings dissipate.

_**Bang!**_

"Let me in!" is the screech from outside.

He rolls his eyes, "As if I didn't hear you the first time…"

Nevertheless, Francis is still smiling as he dusts off the microphone…

* * *

… She pushes against the door, but to no avail—it simply will not budge.

"Gh…"

'_C'mon, c'mon…_'

Blinking away dust that flies into her eyes, Casmilia pushes against the door of what appears to be the dead hollow of a tree, a large puppet with its large wooden arms swinging like a pendulum over the entrance.

'_For the love of–_'

_Click._

"Huh?"

_Click, click, click… _

The strings that seemed to uphold this great figure finally moved, pulled back ever so slightly.

_Click-click-click._

Finally, its head is raised slowly, joints cracking from lack of use.

_Clickclickclickclick…_

_**Click.**_

Casmilia furrows her brow, "What?"

Its eyes begin to glower.

"_**Password.**_"

"A-_Ah_!"

"_**Incorrect…**_" he remarks dryly.

Casmilia bites her lip, unfolding a piece of paper.

"Um…"

"_Refer to your report whenever you feel troubled. I assume you have gathered enough information for you to locate and take out the puppeteer."_

Golden eyes filled with determination, she pats the dust off herself, as she stands up. Casmilia opens her mouth to utter those words:

"X… XX… XXXXXX…"

She mentally cringes at the reluctance seeping into her tone.

"XXXXXXXXXXX is a genius Puppeteer!"

"_**Wh-What?**_"

This time, she stands, confidence seeping into her voice, "XXXXXXXXXXX is a genius Puppeteer!"

There is only a stretch of silence—and a password-locked door—sitting before them, so quiet that they can hear the wind whistling through the field.

"_**Ha…**_"

A snort can be heard from the other side.

"_**Haha…**_"

Laughter—one of mockery—rings through the stony wasteland, falling sharp on the young thunder breaker's ears.

"_**Ahahaha…**_"

* * *

"… Hahaha!"

Francis clutches at his stomach with his glowering hand, not caring enough about the fact that the strings might tangle, as he tries to, with all his might, not drop the microphone in the other…

"Are you—haha—_stupid_?!" he doubles over, "Oh, Goddess, my stomach hurts… _Hahahaha_!"

What sounds like an annoyed squeal sounds through the speaker.

"Don't you _dare_ laugh at me!" her high-pitched voice remarks, "I _will_ get into this hideout of yours!"

Her eyes narrow, as she scans over the document.

'Who_ is a genius puppeteer…_?'

The distinct tap against the door, once again, elicits his reaction:

"P-Password…" he guffaws into the sound converter.

* * *

**Information from The Rememberer:  
**_The name of the puppeteer is…_

* * *

"Francis is a genius Puppeteer!"

_Clickclickclick…_

He narrows his eyes, '_How…?'_

_**Crash**_.

A distasteful scowl is planted upon the young thunder breaker's childish features—needless to say, Casmilia hardly shares his merriment, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

To say that the room is dank and dark would be a complete understatement—a falsity, perhaps.

It has a distinct smell—a strange smell, like that of sunlight trapped for several years, of rat droppings, of the ghosts of things that remain unremembered and unmourned—of a place not tended to for many, _many_ years.

It is the smell of sadness.

Kicking away the puppet heads—covered with dust and cobwebs—in her wake, she slowly makes her way up to this "genius puppeteer"…

She raises an eyebrow.

'_He's not much of a genius if he writes his password onto the back of a statue, now, is he?_'

The small sound of knuckles cracking is unheard by the ten year-old boy:

"That is always nice to hear," the puppeteer says, "I'm truly flattered."

He masks the nervousness in his laugh with a too-cheerful grin.

Her shoes softly patter against the bumpy stone floor, grimacing as a hanging cobweb tangles in her hair.

The soft laughter of the puppeteer begins to die down, as his eyes catch a small flicker coming from her fists.

Slowly, _slowly_, it erupts, her entire fist crackling with power.

_Crackle._

_Fizz._

The neon-yellow light brought very little light into the room—perhaps only enough for him to see her scowl, those robes that hang over her thin—perhaps _too_ thin—body, her badge gleaming in what little light the crackling electricity provided.

His eyes widen at the very sight of it.

'_Knight-in-training_' is the small writing etched into a light blue-and-gold badge his sharp eye manages to pick up.

"Wh-What are you doing here?"

There, as he drops the microphone, his voice drops to a mere whisper, his mouth growing dry.

"A…" he trembles, pointing an accusing finger at her, "A Cygnus Knight?"

'_I need to get out of here—unless…_'

She glares at him menacingly,

"You promised."

He shifts, biting at his lip.

'_It's like what Eleanor said,_' his thoughts are a flurry, '_I shouldn't have come here, should I?_'

"What are you talking about?" are the words, shaken, that leave his lips.

She steps forward, face holding no emotion.

"Francis, _genius_ puppeteer," she says, almost accusing him, "You told me I could have eternity."

He frowns.

* * *

_As he peers into the crack in the doorway, he is careful to not to step forward and make any noise._

_Francis simply watches the Black Witch, as she, in morbid fascination, swirls bright pink-and-purple liquid in a small vial._

"_Eternity, eh?" she says softly, twisting, turning the vial, biting her lip—hesitant._

_As he peers through the doorway, he watches._

* * *

"Eternity?"

"Yes."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Casmilia narrows her eyes, "You're lying."

To this, the boy, at least three years her junior, takes a step back.

"I will fight for this promise."

'_For this power._'

Francis swallows.

"What is your purpose of coming here?" the ten year old intones, unable to keep the waver at the end of his sentence sharp.

"For eternity," she answers simply, "For the sake of the Empress, I have set out on this mission."

"A mission?"

Lightning charge growing stronger, golden eyes filled with determination, she charges forward so suddenly.

Letting out a shuddering breath, he, too, gets into battle stance—one foot forward, puppet in front, standing his ground…

"Fine, then!"

He pulls his hand back, as the mana strings give a small _buzz_.

'_Baroq,_' he grinds his teeth together, as his eyes glower ever so slightly a soft shimmer of gold.

"If you wish to badly to fight as a member of the order of Cygnus…"

'_Eleanor…_'

He jumps back, as he avoids a simple, electricity-charged punch. A thunder breaker, he can tell—the girl with those ponytails fights with all brawn, and no brains.

No strategy.

No technique.

No elegance.

None of these advantages he, as the puppeteer—the magician—has been blessed with, and, more than he ever cares enough to admit, has taken for granted.

'_I will make you both proud!_'

"I will fight as a proud member of the Black Wings!"

Her eyes widen.

'B-_Black Wings?_'

_Plick._

_Plick-plick…_

"Ah!"

"_Seduce!_" Is the spell that he casts in mere seconds.

"Wh-Wh…" her eyes widen, as, much to her chagrin, she steps backwards.

Francis grins, fingers moving accordingly.

"What…!"

Slowly, _slowly_, she backs out towards the doorway.

"What tricks are you pulling on me, puppeteer?!"

Casmilia's fingers tremble under his power, as she reaches out to push against the wooden door of the hideout.

"Now, then," he says airily, without answer, "I shall bid you adieu—"

_Snap._

"Don't tell me that you call me here for a fight, with the promise of a reward," she growls lowly, "And you do _this_!"

_Snip._

Francis feels a cold layer of sweat grow on his forehead, as the strings dissipate, her sheer strength even able to break strings of mana…

… _Snip._

He steps back as the last string is snapped in half. Her fists are balled up.

"Don't be a _coward_."

The strings fizzle out, as she shakes the rest of them, still inside of her, to the floor.

"Wh-How…"

He stares at them flicker, before they fade away into the darkness of the cave.

"Dash!"

Like a flash before his eyes, Francis' eyes widen as she is, all of a sudden, close enough so that their foreheads touch, the light still swirling around her feet.

His heart skips a beat as she hurls him up by the collar.

* * *

"_**Let's see you battle against death with sheer force!**_"

* * *

'_I-Is she…_'

"_Straight!_"

With widened eyes, the breath is knocked out of him as he makes contact with the wall he is flung towards.

He wipes the liquid dribbling from his lips, the metallic taste at the back of his throat an unfortunately familiar one.

She looks down upon the boy, face planted on the filthy cave floor.

She gives what she thinks is a laugh, saying nothing as the thoughts—is this right? Is this what the empress wants?—

He slowly picks himself up and off the floor, expression still unyielding, taking no notice of the small droplet of blood that trickles back down his chin.

"_Strai_—"

And, all of a sudden, surrounded by blackness, there is no more of that lightning of hers to guide her through the dank cave.

There is nothing within the darkness of the cave except the dimmed light of his magic, and the gold in his eyes flashing like the strings on his fingers.

Eyes widening, Casmilia no longer feels the familiar warm buzz of mana fizzling and bubbling through her, emanating and crackling at her fingertips…

"… _Seal._"

Francis pulls his arm back again, hazel eyes sharpened.

'_Fire!_'

_Zap!_

"Aah!"

And, before she knows it, she is tumbling through the air—the force of his power so powerful that her legs swing over her heels, as she tumbles through the cave…

'_How does he…_'

_Crash!_

"I never thought I would have to resort to this."

A warm droplet trails down from her forehead.

'_He's just a child…_' she rolls over, now flat on her back, _'How…'_

He walks so slowly to her body sprawled out on the floor, as though mocking her—her heart beat the only other sound she hears as his quiet steps echoing through the cave get closer, _closer_…

'_That power…_'

Casmilia gives a small whimper as she pulls her hands away from her forehead, hissing in pain.

Slowly, _slowly…_

She narrows her eyes at her hand, "Gh…"

Although she cannot see, even with the primitive lamps lining the hideout, she can tell that warm, sticky substance on her fingers isn't sweat.

"I didn't think I would have to do this," he says again, "But you didn't want to leave while you had the chance."

His eyes glower—the brilliant shade of gold light is the only thing she sights now.

"So, now…"

_Zap._

"Gh…"

Casmilia sits up, glaring at the small boy with a smile on his face.

"You're sick," she hisses as she rises from the floor, "You lot are. You're all _sick_."

Francis takes a cautionary step back, though the fear does not show in his eyes.

"So says the one who feels the need to break into the hideout of a ten year old boy," he sneers in response, "Even if it is by the command of Cygnus, that just proves _your _lot are the ones, that are, in fact—"

_Wham!_

"—Sick?" Casmilia finishes for him, "Are we, now?"

Francis falls to the floor, clutching at the pain in his stomach.

"No wonder they told me to get rid of you," her nose wrinkles, "You Black Wings are scum. You can't even fight properly."

His eyes widen, as he is still doubled over.

"Wh-Why—?"

Before he could so much as complete his sentence, Casmilia gives a swift kick to his chest. The little boy spurts out blood, tainting the pure white of her robe.

"Why does the world think your organization is evil, you ask?"

_Kick._

"S-Stop—"

"—Because Cygnus said that you work under the Black Mage. The Black Mage is evil. That is because he opposes Cygnus."

He covers his head with his hands as she continues to beat him, trembling as the tears pouring from his eyes blends with the blood spurting out of his mouth—parted in a silent scream of shock.

'_And is _everything_ Cygnus says is right?_'

No matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he forces himself to _breathe_, he simply chokes on the stale air around him.

He knows—how he _knows_—that he will never get an answer, as he is pulled up by his collar.

"Cygnus is the messenger of Goddess herself," she growls, "Who are _you_ to oppose her?"

Francis grits his teeth, as she suddenly drops him to the ground once more.

A mocking smirk stretches across her face, the drop of blood that slowly crept down from her forehead and down to her cheek now drying.

"Those puppets of yours," her fists crackle still, mouth open as she pants, "They're empty."

Francis simply grunts in response, strings still attached to that floating puppet, as his broken body is sprawled on the ground.

"Empty," she says again, "In body and soul, they're hollow."

Francis finally takes in a quivering breath.

"… Everything."

His voice is hoarse as the thunder breaker frowns, as his trembling form begins to rise from the shadows.

She gives an incredulous frown, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth, as though defending herself.

"What?"

"Everything has a soul."

With his frail legs quaking as though they are about to break, with a swollen eye, and with his broken, beaten body…

"Don't you see, knight?"

Casmilia wonders why he is still able to smile.

"What _deludes_ you into thinking that _everything_ has a soul?"

He gives a cough, the pain washing over him making him grimace. Even as he feels as though he will cough out his lungs—and perhaps the rest of his internal organs—he presses on.

"Is that what Cygnus told you?" his steps are stilted, "That only humans have souls?"

His arm is propped up against the wall of the cave for support, as he shuts one eye in pain, slowly creeping forward—_step, step_.

"Because, if you rely on Cygnus' words as much as you drink water to survive…"

Casmilia's eyes widen at the sight of the glowering puppet.

"If you're just a puppet bound by obligation and society—bound by the strings of the queen," his grin grows wider, though another trail of blood dribbles from the edge of his lip, "Then are you no different to my own puppets?"

She frowns, letting out a grunt as she is knocked back by his magic.

"Are you no different to _me_, bound by the strings of the Black Mage? Perhaps you're even worse than I am—"

Crimson spatters on the floor.

Francis' eyes widen, as he chokes on his words, the blood he coughs, and the bile that threatens to rise from his throat.

He crumbles to the floor, choking, without even a shred of dignity.

"You aren't profound," she hisses, "You're just a child who spews lies—the lies which are the teachings of the Black Mage."

Not even able to muster up the energy to speak, the energy to feel angry, to feel sadness, to feel humiliation, he grits his teeth before he allows his body to give way—

—Casmilia takes his face up by the chin.

"I have defeated you," she says, "And you promised. So tell me. You promised you would."

"P-Promised…?"

* * *

_"I will swear on my life, when you are older," Reina says with absolution, "That I will come back to this wretched place."_

* * *

'_Promises…_'

"I have broken many promises, knight," he says, "But I can't remember ever making one to you. Perhaps that is because I have broken too many."

* * *

_He stares at her with those wide eyes—innocent eyes not tainted nor darkened by the burden of knowledge and the despair in which he is surrounded—as he hugs the puppet encased in his arms closer to his chest._

"_And the Black Mage will give me everything?" He says, "A land full of toys and puppets?"_

_Eleanor, without lines marring her face, and hope—perhaps false—still lingering in her eyes brushes the hair away from his face with a smile._

"_Everything you'll ever want, Francis," she laughs, "You will get it, I'm sure."_

_She pulls him into a warm embrace._

"_I can promise you that much."_

* * *

His smirk is mirthless.

"… Perhaps that's because none of mine have been fulfilled."

"Gh…" Casmilia clenches her fists, "Why are you doing this? You're only destroying yourself!"

He cannot even bring himself to grimace.

"And you're just destroying us, too," she mutters, "By being a hypocrite. By forsaking your promises, you're…"

'_Why won't you give me what you've promised, when it doesn't even matter whether you have it anymore because you've been defeated?_' is Casmilia's real question.

'_Why are you protecting the likes of the Black Mage?_' is what Francis hears.

The beaten boy looks up. Smiles.

"Because I am a slave to the Black Mage."

* * *

'_Because I'm a scorpion._'

* * *

Casmilia steps back, tears prickling in her eyes.

"Bound to him for infinity," he continues, "Only to get infinitesimal. Don't think I don't know that I won't get anything out of this."

"Are you the puppeteer?"

"Keh," he spits out more blood, "What sort of question is that? You _know_ who I am. I should be asking you who the heck you are if you think you can just barge into my hideout."

It is then, when she looks into his eyes—darkened with knowledge beyond his years, wearied from despair—that she realises the contrast between them and the striking, chilling red.

"You're not the puppeteer I met in Ellinia," she observes, "You are not the same person."

He laughs in answer.

"And yet you are the same."

In the darkness of the cave, Casmilia does not shiver from the cold, as she pulls bandages out of her pouch.

"You haven't gone all over Victoria," her voice quivers as much as his does, as she turns him on to his side, "Planted possessed dolls into the monsters?"

His laughter, he hopes, will mask the pain.

"So that's where my monster doll collection went—"

Francis' eyes widen as she pulls away his cloak, to reveal a ripped black shirt.

"W-W-Wait, hey," he stammers, "What are you doing?"

Casmilia, as much as it pains her to be helping a loathed enemy—and as much as it pains him—lets him lean against her arm, as she pulls him up from the ground.

She can't have a human life on the hands of young Empress Cygnus.

She can't have a human life on her own hands.

'_I aimed to defeat him for what I wanted,_' she sighs, '_To fulfil my mission.'_

"Do you want to die?"

'_Not to kill._'

Francis watches on in horror as his cloak is flung carelessly to the side.

"Do you even know how to heal people?"

"I broke one of your ribs thinking you were someone else!" she exclaims, "I can't just leave you in pain—or, even worse, dead. Your ribs—"

"—I don't care about my ribs."

Casmilia finds herself recoiling.

"My ribs… They mend themselves."

She pauses, frowning as he lowers her gaze. She continues to watch his eyes, the quiver of his lip, hear his shallow breathing.

"Why are you crying?"

He turns his head away from her as far as possible.

"You kept saying it was hollow," his voice is full of spite, tugging her arm away.

* * *

"_Mama?"_

_The little green-haired boy's eyes light up, as she holds it in her hands—a doll, though without a mouth to speak, says more to him than anyone—anything—ever would. Though without eyes to see, has perhaps seen a thousand lifetimes._

_A fascinating doll, perhaps not as much of a toy as much as an artefact. _

_And he points at it, in spite of manners, in spite of everything._

"_What's that, mama?"_

_The woman laughs, as she wipes the dust off of it with her sleeve._

* * *

He grunts as his back hits the floor again, though the pain isn't nearly as bad as the one stinging in his arm, nor the—very literal—crack in his chest…

"In body and in soul, you saw that they were nothing but wood, string and a little bit of magic to move them."

Casmilia turns to the direction he turns his head toward, as he grits his teeth.

"But, me?"

He outstretches his arm, just far enough so he can touch the cheek of the puppet with his fingertips.

"Me…"

* * *

"_This is from your grandfather—the one who loved life, the one who loved you and the one you loved."_

_She places the doll, with its bumped surface, evidently made from the hands of an amateur, further worn with scratches from years of love, limbs hanging loose from overuse into his hands. _

"_They were passed on to my dearest brother—bless his soul—when he was your age."_

_The brunette smiles wistfully, ruffling her son's hair._

* * *

"I see much more than that."

He does not dare meet her gaze, as she drops the bandages.

Where there used to be a puppet, there is now a pile of splintered limbs, an odd torso, and a solitary—almost tragic—head still rolling back and forth, as though still alive, on the cave floor.

"I'm sorry," she says insincerely, "I can buy you a new one."

* * *

"_You have the same hair, the same voice," her voice is soft as a whisper, "The same eyes. You're a spitting image of him."_

_For perhaps the second or third time in all of his years, Francis hears her laughter._

"_Your namesake."_

"_Mama?"_

"_Yes, my son?"_

_For perhaps the two-hundredth, or three-hundredth time, Francis sees her tears._

"_What's wrong?"_

_She wipes them away with a grungy sleeve._

"_I miss him, that's all."_

_She pauses, the look in her eyes unfathomable. _

"_Then where did Uncle go?" The boy always asks questions, sometimes silly, sometimes not, without knowing the weight behind them, "What happened to grandfather?"_

* * *

"That doll is irreplaceable."

"I'll get you some glue, some string, spare parts—"

"—Knight."

She winces, his voice is sharp enough to cut her.

"The doll is broken."

Tears flow from his eyes as the truth of his words weighs more on him than it should.

"You said that my doll is hollow—that it is empty, in body and in soul."

* * *

_She crouches down to Francis' level, though looking at the doll he caresses in his arms, rather than at the boy himself._

"_With all my hope, I wish they went to a land without tragedy, with a lot of toys, dolls," she cups the cheek of the doll, "And puppets, like this one, with a thousand silly faces. They would have liked it that way, I think."_

_Francis smiles at the thought of it._

"_But, for now, you will live as they did—as a puppeteer. And you will be different, Francis."_

* * *

"But it's not hollow. I know this now."

"How?"

He traces his finger over the bumped, scratched surface, worn with love, scratches still fresh from the heat of many battles.

"Because you brought it to a land without tragedy," he smiles, though it is mournful, "With toys, dolls, and puppets, like this one, with a thousand silly faces."

* * *

"_How will I be different?" He pipes up, "How do you know _I_ won't retreat into the world of toys, dolls, and puppets with a thousand silly faces?"_

_Leonore inwardly grimaces._

"_Because, my dear, my son," she runs a hand through his hair again, "You will be the genius puppeteer—I can see it in your eyes, as bright as your future."_

"_You think so, mama?"_

"_I am sure of it," she pats the doll's head with a soft touch, "With this doll, you will go many places."_

* * *

"What are you talking about?"

"Leave."

Casmilia's mouth grows dry, as his gaze meets hers again, his eyes hateful, as he snarls like the wild animal Cygnus told her he is.

The Black Wings, so tainted and evil, are decreed no longer human by the standards of Ereve: and yet why does he cry, like a normal human being—a child—right before her?

"_Leave."_

"I'll get you some string, some glue, and your puppet will be fine—"

She lets out a little scream as she is pushed back into the floor, as he—as much as it pains him—rises to the floor. Though his stance is lopsided, Casmilia can't help but gulp.

"My puppet was _never_ hollow!"

"Franci–Puppeteer…"

"You're the one who came along and made it that way!"

The tears are hot on his cheeks, the anger and adrenaline rushing through to the tips of his fingertips fuelling his rage, pushing him forward, as though he has a purpose, a plan.

"_Leave!_" He says a third time, "Get out! I never want to see _you_ or _your organisation_ again!"

Casmilia simply blinks in response.

"Tell that stupid strategist of yours…" Though his voice is full of rage, it is also choked with tears, "Tell him that I don't want to fight anymore."

"You're leaving the Black Wings?" her voice is quieted with fear, "Just like that?"

Francis throws his head back into sadistic chortle; the last thing he does before he lands with a _thud_ on the floor.

'_Leave,_' he had told her, '_Tell that strategist I don't want to fight anymore._'

The thunder breaker does not dare look at him, sprawled out on the floor, as she pulls out her old clipboard, the text barely readable in the dim light.

* * *

_Objective: Go to the wastelands of Perion defeat the Puppeteer—_

* * *

Suddenly, her blood runs cold, bile rises from her throat as she struggles to contain it.

'_Is this what it means to be a Cygnus Knight?_'

* * *

"It has been done."

Neinheart looks up to the great beast laying before him, her eyes still half-lidded as the bird lifts her head.

'_You told her it was poison?_'

Neinheart gives a curt nod, hands behind his back. Shinsoo gives what sounds like a sigh of relief, her head resting against the floor again.

'_Good,'_ her voice is light,_ 'Thank you for reporting to me, Neinheart. You have always been loyal to me, and to little Cygnus…_'

He still does not move, expression unyielding, as he keeps his hands folded behind his back.

"Shinsoo," he bows his head, "I don't mean to doubt your profound knowledge…"

He clenches at the vial behind his back.

"… But is there really deadly poison contained in this vial?"

Neinheart takes her silent answer as a '_no_'.

"What was really in this vial, if it is not rude for me to ask?"

Shinsoo flares her nostrils.

"_No, no,_" she sighs once more, "_It is not rude at all. It just shows that you are able to question something that seems dubious, unlikely, no matter where it comes from. As a strategist, that is an ability that is required for your job—_"

"—Then may I ask what exactly is in the vial?"

She holds her breath.

"… _You may._"

Neinheart raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Well?"

"_What is within that vial, and a deadly poison,_" she says, "_There is no difference between them._"

* * *

The paper crunches effortlessly under her fingers, as it is flung to the side.

"I get it, now, Francis."

'_To do anything for the sake of the empress, even kill a child, so that she won't have blood on her hands?_'

* * *

"_Knowledge, the acquisition of truth, and a lack of blissful unawareness, Neinheart,_" she says, "That_ is more harmful than poison._"

* * *

She gets out her quill, as she scrawls something across the page.

'_We aren't too different, are we?_'

She narrows her eyes.

"We had the same goals."

'_We both wanted to prove something._'

The paper is crunched again, the ink staining her fingertips as she writes it over and over and _over_ again.

'_We both wanted to make someone proud._'

* * *

She opens a single eye, looking at Neinheart for perhaps a few seconds too long—finally, he shifts, uncomfortably, from his initial position.

He clears his throat, "You still haven't answered my question."

* * *

More paper litters his hideout—Casmilia promises herself that she will tidy it all up before she leaves. Then again, what _is_ a promise, if there is no-one out there to really give it to?

'_We were both promised something,_' her eyes scan over the paper again, '_Even if that something—for you—was infinitesimal._'

* * *

"_Memory serum,_" Shinsoo declares, "_Knowledge. _That _is what is in that vial._"

* * *

With all its scribbles, crosses, and ink blots, she tears the paper off her clipboard (though taking care to not rip the page in half) before she folds it in half, and half again.

'_This will have to do._'

Not before placing potions, a roll of bandages and a note by his side, Casmilia walks out of his hideout without even so much as a second glance.


	26. Interlude II

**Interlude II: 2nd Anniversary Special**

(**_A/N_**) _Really long author's note ahead…_

_I'm really sorry about the lack of updates. I'm currently taking a year 12 subject (while in year 11) which is eating up a lot of my time, and, well… I'm in my second last year of school. Enough said._

_This was initially meant to be Chapter 26 (made extra-long to make up for the lack of updating after exams and all the other crap in my life) but then it occurred to me: what could be a better way to celebrate the 2nd anniversary of this fanfiction than to post the second interlude to this story?_

_Well, it's a day late, but… Close enough, right?_

_No Cecelia this time, in spite of the title of this story. Sorry again. I'm hoping this gives you all more insight into some of the characters that aren't nearly as fleshed out as others, though. That is, if anyone even remembers that this story exists, haha…_

_You might also notice the change in tense. This is intentional, as this describes events that occurred in the story before the point at which the story is at currently. That, and I'm trying to… branch out, I suppose. Let's just ignore the fact that past tense is the default for fiction, shall we?_

_Thanks to all the people who have stuck with this story from the very beginning even up to this point. I really, truly appreciate it._

_This time, I mean it: enjoy!_

* * *

The boy's eyes fluttered open, as he tried to move a hand to brush his bangs from his face—only to find that his hands were bound behind his back.

"What the…"

He tried to swivel around, to take in his surroundings, though he found it too dark to do so, rope around his feet, himself too tightly bound for any hope of escape.

'_Escape?_' his thoughts were foggy, '_Escape to _where_, exactly?_'

All around him, there was but a void full of darkness dotted by stars and the souls of dead clocks and wasted time floating into nothingness, underneath him a tattered wooden chair that seemed out of place amongst the walls and floor of lego blocks that seemed to glow strangely, the magic of it all—

—Wait.

Walls and a floor made of lego blocks?

Never-ending space being the only thing that he could see in the distance, dotted with glowering clocks floating lazily across the landscape like clouds?

Where _was_ this place?

"Am I dreaming?"

"**_One._**"

The sound of the voice gave way to a constant buzzing—akin to the sound of his sanity flat lining—and a sudden flash of bright light made him wince.

"**_No, this is not a dream._**"

"Who _are_ you?"

"**_Two,_**" the voice was surprisingly light-hearted in spite of its volume, "**_I am everything and nothing._**"

The boy blinked in response to the vagueness, looking around for the source of the voice—it seemed to be coming from the shadows.

"Am I high, or something?"

"**_Three. Not quite, no._**"

"Where am I?"

"**_Four. You are in the Paradoxical Pathway, deep in the heart of the Ludibrium Clocktower, where there is infinity and infinitesimal, where what is flung into the depths of time and space cannot be retrieved, where there is everything and nothing. In here, you may well take no physical form—you may well be alive or dead, or neither._**"

It was then, as he said it (**_infinity and infinitesimal; alive, or dead or neither_**) that he realised he did not recognise this place made of lego blocks nor the space behind it, this man who claimed to be everything and nothing…

He realised that, yes, he had a body, a mind, a soul, yet he did not know how he got to have such a body, such a mind, such a soul.

When he tried to retrieve something, or _anything_ from the depths of his conscious mind, he could only see a gap where there should have been laughter, tears; everything that ever mattered to him, and everything that made him, well, _him_.

"Why are you counting my questions?"

The rope, unravelled, fell to his ankles: at this point, he was too engrossed in asking those questions, and hearing those answers, that he couldn't really care enough to flee.

"**_Five. That's something you don't need to know at the moment. Just remember that the amount of questions you may ask me is limited._**"

He narrowed his eyes, still sitting, for fear of what would happen if he were to stand.

"Where can I go from here?"

"**_Six. There is a door behind you, where you can retrieve your memories and what you have searched for all this time by entering a world where everything is real, yet nothing exists._**"

"… What?"

"**_I will not count that as a question._**"

"With me asking all these questions… Will you answer them truthfully?"

"**_Seven. Of course, for it is my duty to tell you the truth._**"

He paused, narrowing his eyes, something in the inflection at the end of his voice suggesting otherwise.

"**_Though not necessarily the whole truth, see. It's how I am. You will come to understand that._**"

"How old am I?" The answer to that, surely, couldn't be something which could be skirted around.

"**_Eight. That is a number that cannot be defined. Not here, in this world. Not now._**"

"How old _was_ I?"

"**_Nine. You were fourteen._**"

His jaw tightened, for some reason he could not fathom, much less put a name to. There was a kindness in this voice, a type of sympathy, like his voice begged him to ask the right questions—and yet there was an undertone of malevolence…

He shook his head from those thoughts.

"What sort of person was I?"

"**_Ten._**"

And, for some reason, the man—the shadow, the demon, whatever he may be—let a pause sit between them.

"**_You were a mischievous boy; playful, but pensive and stubborn, if not a little bit cunning. You rarely apologized for your wrongdoings, yet you could never let go of your regrets,_**" he drawled, "**_But there were people you very truly, deeply cared for, and you would do anything in the world to protect them, to make them happy._**"

He paused again, stepping forward to reveal himself not as a voice, not as a man, not as anything remotely human, but as a shadow, with a scarred face and broken eyes hidden beneath a cloak.

And, all of a sudden, the boy's heart lurched, the sound of the man's voice menacing rather than comforting, "**_Perhaps that was your downfall._**"

The boy's throat became dry, the words he wished to say feeling strange as they left his lips.

"Am I dead?"

"**_There is no eleventh question,_**" he said simply, "**_There are no more questions to answer._**"

The shadow man stepped aside, as though he was ready to make a decision. The boy silently cursed himself as he realised that he had wasted his questions, this precious opportunity to figure out who—_what_—he is.

"**_You must find your purpose in this life yourself._**"

When he opened his mouth to shout something back, he was cut off by a flash of blinding white light practically cutting into his eyelids. The shadow casted him aside into the void quickly enough for his screams to not be heard.

He was flung aside into eternity, where nothing and nobody can be retrieved…

* * *

… And when he opened his eyes again, he expected to be in a windowless room with padded walls, bound to a chair wearing a straitjacket, someone prodding him with an electric rod.

Yet he stared up at the canopies of an unknown forest.

His head slowly rotated as he took in his surroundings. Vines climbed up the trunks of strange, contorted trees, roped ladders swinging from the little houses perched on top of the branches, all of it bathed in golden sunlight…

The boy found his mouth hanging open slightly, as he raised his arm, staring at the back of his hand—how is this all even real?—for what seemed to be a too-long time.

* * *

"**_—A world that is real, yet nothing exists._**"

* * *

He lowered his arm, '_So _that's_ what he—or that _thing, _whatever it was—meant…_' he thought, '_A world that is real, but, to _me_, does not exist._'

He plucked himself up and off the floor and slid his way up a slimy, leaf-covered tree trunk, with his elbow as he hobbled his way across the forest floor, feeling , strangely, as though his legs were no longer his own.

'_None of this existed to me before I was sent here. I get it now. Now I need to figure out what he meant by all those other questions…_'

But there was something else that he had been set out to do, he just knew it.

There was something, deep inside of him, that told him that he had been sent to fulfil a mission, that he had a purpose of some sort, that this all had meaning.

With determination, he stood on shaky legs, one hand on the thick tree trunk, the other outstretched for balance—how long _exactly_ had he been in that room?—as he slowly made his way across the forest.

"Well, this sucks."

The leaves of the forest floor squelched beneath his bare feet, as he blew a tuft of hair from his face.

"What do I do now?" he said to no-one in particular, "What am I doing here? What the hell is all of this? Can I just go back now?"

He made sure his steps were quiet as he continued to tread down the makeshift forest path, half-expecting that shadow man to make a rip in time and space and appear before him to answer all of his questions.

"Hello?"

But to no avail.

"Is anyone alive–"

"_Myu._"

"Huh?"

He whipped around, meeting the gaze of… was that a green blob?

He rubbed his eyes, blinking before narrowing his eyes at the moving, breathing_…_ emoticon, for lack of a better description. The boy, staring at the slime's perpetually smiling face, stood his ground on shaky legs.

"What the hell are you–"

"_Myu!_"

His eyes widened as he was knocked to the ground, the breath knocked out of him not even allowing him to gasp.

"Wh-What the…?"

He barely managed to sit up and rub the back of his head, before…

"… _Myu._"

He turned around, to find a slightly bigger blob of whatever-the-hell by its side.

"_Myur, myu,_" it squeaked in its tiny voice, bouncing to the larger slime's side. He raised an eyebrow at them.

"What _are_ these things…"

Another one appeared from behind the trees.

"_Myu?_" Its voice sounded no different to the others.

"_Myuur._"

His eyes widened as the chorus of mewls are faded in the background, all of their beady eyes revealing themselves in the background, their smiles sickly sweet.

"Oh my God," he muttered for the second time, as he sees, in the distance, more of those beady yellow eyes staring at him from a distance.

'_I have no choice,_' He fumbled around in his pockets—desperation at its finest, he realized, '_Do I?_'

And, from his pocket, he produced a short brown stick, a tingling at his fingertips as he gripped on to it.

It wasn't much.

'_But it will have to do._'

He flicked whatever-it-is-he-managed-to-produce-from-his-pock et in front of him, taking on a mock battle stance, with a scowl playing on his lips.

"Get away from me!" He bellowed.

"_Myu! Myuur!_" They screeched back, as though in protest.

Something fizzled through him, an unfamiliar and unsettling buzz began to ring in his ears, only growing louder, more intense, the small tingle at the ends of his fingers—what he initially thought was adrenaline, though he now knows is something else entirely—erupting into burning pain…

His ears pricked up at the sudden silence—no more were the chorus of angry blobs.

He opened one eye, arms still protectively in front of him, though, by now, he saw that what was left of the slimes was a pile of what was once the gel that they were composed of, and a small bronze coin.

Lowering his arms, he stepped forward, crouching down to admire his… handiwork.

"Mother of…" He muttered to himself, "I just… I just killed an entire family."

He plucked the drops from floor, the metal coins cold and the gel sticky yet malleable as he rubbed it between his fingers.

"And now I'm taking their carcasses and life savings," he muttered, "Hm. How morbid."

'_At least I'm cleaning up after the mess they made, right?_'

He laughed at the thought, the cruel sound disconcerting even to himself.

'_What the hell is wrong with me?_'

As another slime bounced past, perhaps blissfully unaware of the massacre of its entire family—or perhaps lacking a brain—he felt the tingle at his fingers, not nearly as painful as before, as he fired a projectile at it.

"_M—_"

It didn't even have the time to let out a final squeal in surprise before it melted into the ground. Another coin between his fingers, and he grinned.

'_Even I don't know what's wrong with me._'

He raised his wand, the smile fading, as another slime appeared from behind the tree…

* * *

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of light, magic and tiny squeals, the latter sound gradually growing to become more jarring as the sun set lower into the sky.

Soon enough, he was surrounded by a field devoid of all but the carcasses of slimes and little coins littering the ground, so many that not even a single blade of grass could be seen.

He stood still, and simply _stared_ at it all.

"What _is_ wrong with me?"

He shook the thoughts out of his head, willing himself to collect the coins and the slime remains, although he didn't know entirely what to do with all the loot—who would _want_ this, anyway?

'_I've been set out to fulfil a purpose._'

He left the rest of the slime gels on the ground to rot, the air lit up with sparkling light and magic—the novelty of which had worn off long ago—as a layer of sweat grew on his forehead.

'_… But it's not_ this.'

One last slime melted into the ground with a yelp, as brilliant blue light erupted all around him…

* * *

_When he opened his eyes again, he narrowed his eyes as he looked up into a cold, fluorescent light flickering slightly, his back on a cool, linoleum floor._

_'_Huh?_'_

_He jolted up, wide-eyed, as he saw, around him, stifling pasty white walls. The boy frowned as he glanced at all the doors stretching down the corridor._

_Why?_

_Why did this place seem so familiar to him?_

_"Am I…"_

_He got off the floor and willed himself to run back to where he was—really, he'd preferred the field of slime carcasses to the eerie quietness this place offered…_

_Nonetheless, he keeps walking along the corridor, as though not even in control of himself, and, for a reason that he didn't know entirely, he suddenly jolted right and reached forward to open a door. _

_What was so special about _this_ door, that he finds himself walking through it, even though it looks the same as all the other doors he has walked past, with their peeling paint and metal plate underneath the tiny window with a random jumble of numbers he couldn't care enough to remember?_

_The room was the same as the corridor, pasty white, plain, smelling of antiseptic, neat little beds with bleached white sheets lined up in neat little rows…_

_There was a girl at the end of the room. A sickly, plain girl with sad eyes bound to the bed with wires and tubes all sticking out of her body._

_She turned towards the sound of his steps, and it is then that he realises he is carrying a box of something. A box of something for the sick girl at the other end of the hall._

_Who was this girl?_

_What was in this box?_

_'_What's even going on anymore?_'_

_The girl smiled at him, and, all of a sudden, he found himself smiling, too._

_"I have been waiting for you."_

_His eyes widened as it all gives way to blinding white, and then blackness, and then…_

* * *

… And then his eyes snapped open again.

He blinked, once, twice. Moments slipped by as he expected and waited for it to come back, the familiarity of it all, the warmth and comfort he found in those otherwise cold, colorless walls.

How was it that he remembered nothing, yet it felt like he had seen those things—the corridor, the door, the beds in rows, the girl—a hundred, perhaps a _thousand_ times?

Yet it carved itself deep into the back of his memory, falling into place and fitting so perfectly, like it had always meant to be there in the first place. Like those memories were his own.

"What _was_ that?"

He looked down at his hands, wide-eyed, as though they provided some sort of resolution, as though they held the answers to his questions, to everything.

'_Is this a dream? Where am I? What sort of person was I?_'

He plucked the wand off the floor without a word, and set off to his next destination, where ever that was.

'_Am I dead?_'

In this world that is real yet does not exist, he must find out himself.

* * *

_A hospital ward, with dull grey light filtering through blinds, a weak, sickly girl with ashen hair draped over hollowed grey eyes and too-pale skin still laughed in spite of it all._

_"I'm so happy to see you."_

_The boy, who he, by that point, knew was is himself—it was a little strange to think that way, he realised—managed a weak smile in reply, as he handed her the box._

_"Here. They're your favourites."_

_She opened it up—and it was just like he said. Six of them, lavender-flavoured macarons lined up in two neat little rows of three, and she found herself beaming._

_"Thank you."_

_She took one from the box with a laugh, and he couldn't help but smile, too._

* * *

It did not take him a long time to find himself falling through the Path of Time to get to the Paradoxical Pathway once more.

"**_… My, oh my._**"

And for some reason, Asmodius sounded amused.

"**_I haven't seen you for such a long time. I didn't expect to see you for a while. Gaining power quickly, I see. How have you been?_**"

"I have no time for pleasantries," his voice was low, "I'm here to tell you about the decision I have made."

"**_Is it so important?_**"

"… Maybe."

"**_Being a little brash here, are we?_**"

He stepped forward with new-found confidence, his eyes hard with determination.

"I can't say that I know much," he said, "But there are quite a few things of which I'm certain."

He would do next to anything to find out who that girl with the sad eyes was, what she meant to him, and why, _why_ he felt like she meant so much more to him than anyone could ever understand.

"**_Go on._**"

"That girl… I have no real idea of who she is. But she's supposed to mean something if she always appears before me whenever that blue light surrounds me, right?"

There was silence. Of course he wouldn't be answering any of his questions. He would simply sit, and listen, and—why was he smiling?

"**_You don't sound sure about anything at all._**"

"The only thing I am really sure about is that I will do anything to know who she is. To know what she means to me."

The shadow man raised an eyebrow, "**_And?_**"

"And I hope to understand, one day, why I feel like she means so much more to me than I, or anyone, will ever hope to understand."

Although it seemed not possible, the man seated atop the gate, the swirling portal—he had yet to ask what it is, yet he feared asking—found his grin stretching wider.

"**_You'd do absolutely anything?_**"

"Anything, if she really means the world to me."

"**_I can't tell you if you value someone that much, or that selflessly. That's for you to decide._**"

"You told me, before, not too long ago, that there were people who I very truly, deeply cared for."

The man's eyes widened for but a split second, before he retained his usual calm demeanour. The boy smiled.

"**_Yes? And?_**"

"Was that girl one of those people, old man?"

The man with the broken eyes looked more grotesque as his face scrunched into a scowl, which the boy took as a definite 'yes'.

"And what can I do to find—"

"**_—You are clever._**"

"What?"

"**_You are a clever boy, to have figured out your purpose of being here so quickly,_**" he observes, "**_Yet you also have potential, if you have gotten to this point of the clock tower at your skill level._**"

The boy stepped back, his eyes narrowed, hardly noticing his hands placed defensively in front of him, "What are you trying to say?"

The man held out a bony hand, the grin stretched across his face had revealed a sharp set of yellowing teeth.

"**_Join me, child._**"

The boy's voice wavered, "J-Join you?"

"**_Join me. I need a great mind like yours, to help me build a new world._**"

"Has that got something to with, uh…" he pointed toward the swirling portal, "_That_?"

His eyes, previously entirely black and somehow always bemused, shone a bright lilac—a menacing sight the boy couldn't tear himself away from. The boy found himself stepping forward, taking one step, and another…

"What are you…?"

"**_It has nothing to do with the gate. I _****will****_ tell you about that, but, first…_**"

The same purple light emanated at his fingertips, the mana of his pointer finger gradually elongating into a thin thread.

"**_We must make a contract._**"

The sound of the spell breaking was like shattering glass, and Asmodius, instead of showing fear, alarm, perhaps despondence, he put on his mask of usual bemusement. He wasn't sure if his laughter sounded contrived.

"**_You are powerful, indeed,_**" he chuckled, before narrowing his eyes.

'_I shouldn't have given you so much of my power._'

All of a sudden, the boy's voice sounded irritated and fearful, and he found himself stepping back—once, twice, thrice…

"Now, what will I get out of our little '_contra_—"

"**_—I will return you to your blood-sister._**"

The boy is frozen in mid-step.

"That girl?" He stammered, "Her? She's my sister?"

"**_I did tell you, once, that you were a mischievous boy, who cared deeply, truly, for those he cared about. I'm not surprised that she is the one who you first thought of when you regained your memories._**"

The boy paused, deep in contemplation.

This man was known as a man whose duty was to tell the truth when asked questions—though not necessarily _whole_ truths. But a half-truth is better than a lie, isn't it?

"**_What are you waiting for?_**"

"Is she alive?"

The boy observed that Asmodius pauses for a second or two too long.

He gritted his teeth, "Is she alive right now, Asmodius?"

"**_Questions about life or death are I cannot answer. You will need to find that yourself._**"

"Then how can you promise such a thing?" He couldn't hold back his laughter, "That you can bring me to my sister, even if she may well not be alive?"

Asmodius then decided that it was his turn to laugh.

"**_Look at where we are, boy,_**" he outstretches his arms for dramatic effect, "**_I am in the middle of the fabric that makes up time and space. Compared to that, control over life and death—necromancy, they call it—is child's play._**"

The black-haired boy clenches his fists.

"Can I really see her?"

His eyes glowered again, and, at that time, the green-eyed boy was not afraid.

"**_Yes._**"

The strings are lengthened—the curtain is drawn.

The cameras are rolling.

"**_Yes, you can._**"

The stage is set.

As the strings prickled at his skin, the last thing he heard before he is engulfed in lavender-coloured light was the sound of maniacal laughter.

* * *

The first time that the boy met _him_, he hadn't thought that he was menacing in the slightest.

That green-haired boy, standing still, would only look at him, wide-eyed, a doll hugged close to his chest. He would do this for hours upon _hours_ on end, trailing behind him quiet and almost unseen, like a shadow.

Raising his eyebrow, the magician—now cleric—finally turned to him and said: "Can I help you?"

_Blink._

"What are you doing here?" he pushed, head turning to look at him, "Are you alone?"

_… Blink. Blink._

"Are you lost?" he asked finally, turning to him fully, "You look young. Could I help you find your parents, maybe? Are they here?"

His voice was quiet, "I have no parents. I'm here with no-one."

It was the cleric's turn to blink.

"I have nothing," The puppeteer took it upon himself to continue, "But that's an entirely different story. I'm not here to tell you that."

His grip on his wand tightened, just in case.

"What are you even doing down here? If you're not lost, you must be searching for something."

'_But for what?_' his palms grew sweaty. The child's eyes were scrutinizing, though they were a typical child's eyes, showing no sign of true malice. Why did it scare him so, then?

"I've been watching you," The puppeteer narrowed his eyes, "Closely. For a long time, now. And I can see that you're powerful. That you have the potential."

"Great," his tone was flippant in spite of the other boy's utter seriousness, "What do you want from me, then?"

"I have one question for you. It will help me decide."

"Decide _what_?"

"Do you fear death?"

* * *

_The sheets bunched up under her bony fingers, as eyes tracked the droplets falling down the windowsill, a box of macarons in her lap._

_"The rain is mocking me," she said suddenly._

* * *

The boy-cleric stopped to look at him, the time stretching out between them, the seconds turning into minutes, the green-haired boy still stood his ground, wide eyes scrutinising, waiting for an answer.

"Why do you ask that question?" he finally asked.

"I told you, it will help me decide. You will have another chance to answer the question later, depending on what you say, but please answer honestly. Do you fear death?"

And all the cleric could do is stand there, and stare.

* * *

_Awoken from deep sleep, the blankets on the chair beside her rustled as the boy awoke with a groan._

_"Why do you say that?" He mumbled groggily, rubbing his eyes._

_She turned to him, grey eyes downtrodden and filled with sadness, almost reflecting the sky she stares out into day after day, week after week, and, she knows, will have to look at for even longer than that._

_"The rain," she said again, voice soft and quiet as ever, "It's reminding me of that promise you made. The one you made such a long time ago."_

_The boy could only blink in response._

* * *

"I-I'm sorry," he said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You don't need to."

* * *

_The girl sighed again._

_"A couple of years ago, when you gave me that first box of macarons. You smiled at me, and then..."_

_Although she turned away too quickly for him to see her expression, the boy could see her shoulders trembling._

_"A-And then..."_

_She began to laugh, wiping away the tears with the back of her fingers._

* * *

"Just answer the question."

He took in a deep breath.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I am afraid of death." And he wished to say nothing more.

"Why?" Although the puppeteer's voice was neutral—not urging, nor scrutinising—it annoyed him to no end. "Why do you fear death?"

* * *

_"I… I'm a crybaby. I'm sorry. I can't help it."_

_As he hugged her close, rubbing her arm, letting her rest her head in the crook of his shoulder, he knew that even if this is the only thing that he can do, even if it wasn't much, he may as well try._

_"It's okay," he offered, "You don't have to tell me, if it upsets you this much."_

_"No, no. It's important. I want you to remember."_

* * *

"Is it because you don't want to leave the world, and everyone in it, behind?"

He shook his head, "I have nothing to leave behind."

For the first time in perhaps the history of the world, he saw the doll-master chuckle.

"Then what's there to be afraid of? Are you afraid of what happens _afterwards_?"

* * *

_He looked down at her and noticed that her gaze was directed at the window again._

_"You promised me, when you gave me that first box of macarons from that café," she whispered, "That as soon as this is all finished, as soon as this is all over..."_

_He couldn't help but grimace as a strange wetness soaked his shoulder._

* * *

"Yes, I am afraid of what will happen afterwards."

"Of heaven?" There was something, a certain emotion in his eyes, something like sentiment, "You can't be afraid of heaven, could you?"

"No, not of heaven. I am afraid of the empty promises that I have made."

* * *

_"You said you would—no, _will_—take me out to that very café, buy me as many lavender macarons as I wanted, and we would sit by the window, laughing, and we'd watch the rain dripping down to the windowsill together."_

_She opens the box, like she has done so at least the last one-hundred times, wary, peering into the box as though to check its contents before almost tearing the cardboard in her rush to get it open with a wide grin on her face._

_But, unlike the last hundred times, she plucks a macaron from the box and offers the first one to the boy, still with the smile on her face._

_The flavour, lavender, was always strange to him—he thought, perhaps, that they brought colour into the pallid walls, and from this he knew that the lilac of that dress she always wore was her favourite colour, the violets sitting by her bedside her favourite flowers…_

_He took it nonetheless, and he took it with a smile._

_She paused for a moment, serenely watching him nibble on the edge of the macaron with one eye shut—he's bearing it, at least—before taking one from the box for herself._

_"I suppose that this will have to do for now."_

* * *

"I realise that I fear death because it would mean I am not alive."

"Oh?"

"I am afraid of dying knowing that I have not lived. If I were dead, then I would not feel happiness, sadness, or any emotions at all, like regret, for those empty promises."

Francis gave a simple nod in answer.

* * *

_And then, they gazed out the window at the rain dribbling down the windowpanes, nibbling on their macarons with smiles on their faces because, even if this is the only thing that they can do, even if it's not much..._

* * *

"I see."

His robe swished at his ankles, "I will come back and ask that question again, and I suggest you think about it until then."

The boy watches blankly as the boy steps slowly out of the Ludibrium pathway, dodging the monsters in his wake with skill and refinement beyond his years.

As soon as he was gone, he clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and, with the rage boiling in his eyes, let out a howl of anger at nothing and no-one.

'_Why did he ask that question?_!'

In the midst of the Forgotten Path of time, he is met with silence.

* * *

_Even if it's not much, it still makes her happy._

* * *

Shivers are sent up the boy's spine as his palm slammed down onto the desk with a sound that may well have shattered his eardrums.

"_Another_ one?"

He was at the age where his eyes were no longer wide, curious, innocent. They were cynical from knowledge from beyond his years, snide in all his arrogant prowess.

It was at this age—the age when they begin to become aware of the world they are living in, though do not understand everything entirely—that they began to assign tasks to the younger members. But _this_ boy…

"I have less conventional methods of recruiting members," Francis drawled, folding his hands over the torso of his doll, "You see, I like to make sure they're ready to join this organisation before…"

Francis swallowed.

'_Before they have to deal with what _they_ both went through._'

As paper crinkled under his palm, a low growl of rage bubbling at the back of his throat, the man mistakes the silence for carelessness rather than hesitation.

"You can't just let off another potential recruit, Francis!" he bellowed, "When the Black Wings ask you to recruit someone, you actually _recruit someone_ as quickly as possible, by whatever means possible."

Francis let his face fall to a deadpan.

"I can't kidnap people. That's against the law, you see."

Hiver's words leaned over Francis, "We're the Black Wings, Francis. We _are_ the law."

"To be perfectly fair, I still couldn't kidnap people even if I tried."

Hiver smirked at the visible fear shown in the child's widened eyes as he reached forward to touch his doll—if Francis could have moved back into the seat any further, he may well have been a _part_ of it.

"Of course you can't. You're a child."

As he moved in closer, the child began to shake.

"D-Don't…"

"But you have quite a bit of advantage compared with the rest of us; being able to channel your mana into strings to control dolls, puppets, animals…"

"Agh…"

Hiver poked the head of the doll with a sneer, watching it tilt back, Francis grimacing as its hollow eyes gazed at the ceiling.

"People, too."

He stood up straight again, continuing to pace around the room.

"You need to manipulate people, Francis. It's a part of the job. But, in a way, it's so much easier for you."

Francis, with a scowl—though with a twinge of relief in his eyes—tipped its head forward again. "Don't touch him," he said icily, "He doesn't like it when people do that."

Hiver let out a bitter laugh.

"Listen, kid; I have no time for your stupid antics. I've had more than enough kids like you who refuse to do their work."

He paused for a second, and a second longer, staring blankly at him from behind his sunglasses. When Francis started to shift slightly in his seat, Hiver made his move.

"There are repercussions, you see."

"Like what?"

Hiver smiled. There was fear in Francis' voice, but there was hope in his eyes—hope to escape, hope for freedom.

'_An impossibility, he will realise._' Hiver didn't know whether to chuckle morbidly at that thought, or to take pity.

Nonetheless, he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Absolutely nothing."

How funny, for Francis to think that expulsion from the organisation was something that he would offer as a punishment.

"Wh-What?"

"I'm not going to do anything to you until and unless you actually complete the simple task I have set out for you."

Francis rose from his seat, expression fixed in disbelief and perhaps horror; "But—"

Hiver made a point to raise his index finger to his lips, before he started walking slowly towards the door.

"No 'if's, no 'but's," Hiver paused, keeping his head half-turned to the boy, "To survive in a world like this, you have to be obedient."

And, without another word, the door is slammed shut behind him.

Standing there in disbelief, unbeknownst to Francis, those last words would become the best piece of advice he could ever, ever get.

* * *

"**_Child._**"

Asmodius held out a hand, the gesture almost comforting if not for the grotesque, ungodly claws sticking out from the ends of his fingers.

"**_Come closer, child._**"

He attempted a friendly smile, and the boy found his eyes widening as he produced _something_ from inside his dark robe.

"… **_I have something to show you._**"

* * *

It went unsaid that the boy enjoyed the anonymity of the city—people could pass you day in, day out, their gaze lowered with their hands in their pockets as they sauntered past. Everyone had their own lives, their own complex personalities, their own stories.

Everyone minded their own business.

He sipped his coffee, watched as life went by as he wiped away the foam with the back of his hand. He watched a person's sadness beneath a bright-eyed smile, that couple holding hands as they walked down the pavement, the despondent man that seemed to always be on the street corner, asleep, while a little girl threw a coin in his hat out of pity.

It was the afternoon after his third job advancement; a long and arduous journey, a trek through the mountains and blizzards of El Nath—although he never ended up forsaking his outfit, for the magic of several litres of red bean soup managed to keep him from losing at least three fingers from the biting chill, which was something he never entirely came to understand.

Nonetheless, he smiled quietly to himself as he celebrates with a cup of coffee, and not much else.

'_Freaking black crystals,_' he took another sip, '_So expensive. Now all I can afford when I go to a Kerning City café is a cup of black coffee._'

The boy wonders to himself why he had chosen such a place to celebrate such a momentous occasion. He simply sat and stared—the boy could pass by as many as a thousand people in a single day in a city like this, the most contact he would make with them being the brushing of shoulders in a crowded street, or the mutter of 'sorry' when he bumped into someone who looked the wrong way before moving on.

A thousand people, just like himself, spending the day—or night, though that was generally not the ideal situation—in the hustle and bustle of Kerning City. The very thought of it fascinated him, he realised.

He pursed his lips as he fished through his pockets for mesos.

"This coffee's pretty bad, though," he muttered to himself, conveniently ignoring the fact that, while he previously hadn't had a single drop of coffee in his entire life, he was trying to develop a taste for drinking it _black_. And in the _afternoon_, no less.

He set down the half-finished cup of now-cold coffee, and began to take his leave, placing a few crumpled notes on the table, when, all of a sudden—

"—Do you fear death?"

The sound of the voice was even more jarring than the sound of the chair scraping back against the concrete, akin to nails on a chalkboard.

The boy visibly grimaced, though not there wasn't even a trace of surprise or fear in his voice—he _was_ a scrawny ten year-old boy, after all. He didn't even bother looking at him. "_You_ again?"

There's a small stretch of silence, before Francis attempted a smile.

Andrew cleared his throat, "What do you want, and how did you find me?"

"I want you to answer the question before I tell you what I truly want," he said, the smile did not leave his lips, but faded from his eyes, "And I have my ways of tracking people, you see."

The boy gave a sigh—there was no such thing as reasoning with the likes of the puppeteer, after all.

"No." His voice was firm, decisive, "No, I do not fear death."

* * *

_"What's in this bottle?"_

"**_Hm,_**" _Asmodius smirked, _"**_I like to call it… eternity._**"

* * *

Francis raised an eyebrow, "I see you've changed your answer."

The boy's glare fixated on him darkened, even though a smile grew on his lips, "Things change, you see. It's been a while, and… well, I could say that I've gained a deeper insight into things."

Francis inclined his head, "Such as?"

The priest tilted his head to the side in the same fashion almost scathingly, that smile still on his lips serving to be even more of an insult.

"Such as the workings of this world; things that the likes of _you_ wouldn't know even a little bit about."

"Don't think that you are better than everyone else just because you now have a deeper understanding of holy magic."

His eyes glowered yellow slightly, followed by his doll.

"… The other mage classes far outclass you in power, after all."

"I think you're misunderstanding me, here," he drawled, "Actually, you don't understand me at all. I'm not afraid of death because, now, I know what follows afterward."

The puppeteer, previously indifferent, previously unperturbed, found his eyes widening.

"You _know_?" Francis' voice was a whisper. "You know exactly what happens when we—the both of us, alike—die?"

The other boy ran a hand through his hair with a laugh.

* * *

_The boy was suddenly unsure of whether or not to be afraid._

"**_Drink it._**"

_He gazed down at the small vial in his hand—it was too small to even take up the entirety of his palm. How was it that something so small could hold the power of _eternity_?_

_"I still don't know what this will do to me."_

"**_Trust me on this one. It's for the best._**"

* * *

"There's nothing."

His eyes once full of wonderment were now filled with condescension, though also a twinge of a strange type of hopelessness. If this boy was right, and there's _really_ nothing at all… Then where is the land of endless toys, dolls and puppets with a thousand faces?

Francis shook his head, his voice that of a boy in denial, "You truly think that there is no afterlife—no heaven, and no hell?"

The older boy was silent, as he slowly turned his head towards Francis so as to have half-gazed at him, his glare menacing.

* * *

_He pressed his lips to the neck of the vial, eyes shut tightly as he tilted his head back._

* * *

'_This world _is_ hell._'

He seemed to have his glare fixed on him for maybe a second or two too long, because Francis clasped onto his doll, eyes darkened with mistrust. The puppeteer stood his ground, as though to say 'I am unafraid,' but the way his body tensed up and the way his mana spiked—as it does when one is afraid—said otherwise.

He flashed a smile. He made sure his eyes weren't too squinted so that his smile appeared strained, but weren't too open as to appear too empty, too distant, too fake. Faking genuine, comforting smiles, making meaningless small-talk, hiding pain, worry, shame… if it is not an art form, it may well be just as hard to master.

"There's nothing," he finally said when he saw Francis' shoulders relax, "Nothing at all. I know it."

He said it so lightly that Francis could practically hear the rage bubbling from the pit of his stomach.

Everything he ever believed in: the world that was alive to him, that which he fought so hard for… Is it really all for naught?

Does it all simply _not_ exist?

Francis narrowed his eyes, the answer sure in his mind, not willing to—or simply incapable of—being changed by a crazy boy, previously driven by fear, all of a sudden claiming to have the knowledge of Goddess herself.

'_Heaven, Hell—_some_ sort of afterlife—_has_ to exist._'

"If we _do_ just fade into nothingness after we die, and that there is nothing more than this shallow, perturbing world," Francis spat, "Then we must lead a very shallow existence."

Andrew couldn't hold back his laughter for any longer.

'_… We lead a very shallow existence indeed._'


	27. Trepidation

**Chapter 27**

(_**A/N**_) _… It's been _way_ too long. _

_Almost as long as this author's note._

_I'm so sorry about the slow rate of updates. This year, I got really, REALLY caught up in school, personal matters, and got slightly immersed in another WIP/original work. I mean it when I say that this story will be finished, although I never specified _when_. Or even _how_, for that matter. But I digress._

_I'm not sure if anyone even remembers this story anymore after so long, and I don't want to be one of those writers who would go on (seemingly) indefinite hiatus without any warning whatsoever. Well, technically, that's already happened, and, again, I apologize._

_I also apologize for the length—well, lack thereof—of this chapter in spite of how long I've been away. I just didn't know how to extend this chapter beyond the word count it's already at without there being a lot of terrible padding, nor did I know where to put in extra sections without the pacing becoming terribly imbalanced and taking away content (and, consequently, some of the suspense) from future chapters.__  
_

_Now that you have managed to climb over this wall of text, you may commence actually reading the chapter._

_Enjoy, everyone!_

* * *

"Brilliant!"

For the first time in what seems to be a century, a genuine smile lights up Neinheart's face.

"You were able to defeat the puppeteer!" He gives her a pat on the shoulder, "I knew you'd be up to the task, Casmilia."

She gives a weak smile as she gazes up at him, shoulders slightly hunched. His smile falters as quickly as it had come.

"Hm," he hums, "For someone who's just defeated such a great enemy, you look a little downtrodden. What is it?"

* * *

_The tears that well up in the boy's eyes—in spite of the darkness, in spite of his words, and in spite of what he stands for—still choke his voice._

"_My puppet was never empty," Francis' voice cracks, "You're the one that came along and made it that way!"_

* * *

Casmilia shakes the memory out of her head with a frown, brow twitching.

"Well, for one, it feels like I spent nearly a year in that dank cave," she says, "Other than that, I guess there's something I have to tell you."

"Oh? What is it?"

* * *

_He lunges forward with his doll, teeth gritted, eyes full of determination, and hope that he will, this time, win. He will make them all proud, that he is able to fight for what _they_ stand for… Even if it is not what _he_ stands for, it _is_ what will make them happy, right?_

"_I will fight as a proud member of—"_

* * *

"—The Black Wings, huh?"

Casmilia gives a nod, not bothering to look up towards Neinheart.

"Did Francis the Puppeteer really mention that?"

"Yes," her voice is quiet, head bowed, "He did."

"I see. I'm surprised the puppeteer is a part of the Black Wings, to be completely honest."

Casmilia tilts her head up again, "What _are_ the Black Wings, exactly?"

Neinheart blinks at the question. Is this not on the curriculum for academy students? If anything, this would be the very first thing taught to them.

'_We should really bring general knowledge back into the Noblesse course…_'

"The Black Wings are a group of people following the Black Mage," he answers nonetheless, "They long for a time when the Black Mage controlled the world, and would do anything for him to regain control of the universe."

* * *

"_Get out. I never want to see _you_ or your stupid organisation ever again."_

* * *

"… It looks like, perhaps, the Black Wings will become active once more."

Casmilia clenches her fists.

"But wouldn't it all our fault, then?"

* * *

"_Tell that stupid strategist of yours that I don't want to fight anymore."_

* * *

"What?"

"If the Black Mage is so bad," she counters, "And bringing him back would only bring about a reign of chaos… What sane person would _want_ to stand for that?"

"That is a question we have been asking for centuries, Casmilia. The answer, like the answer to many questions regarding this organisation, is something we don't know—frankly, we don't _want_ to know."

Casmilia frowns.

'_But it's still our fault that he has to be like this,_ _isn't it?_'

He folds his hands behind his back in their usual position, turning up his head.

"These Black Wings are incredibly dangerous, Casmilia," he says, "If they fight, sacrifice their lives and murder families for the sake of bringing about a world of eternal chaos that can only stopped by Goddess herself."

His gaze grows dark.

"Then it can only be safe to say that there is something wrong with them, and that they aren't sane after all, yes?"

Casmilia frowns in response.

"These people, and their madness," he continues, "And their incredible amount of selfishness… This is what we're standing up against, Casmilia. This is our sacrifice to Cygnus."

He holds out a sheet of paper, "Here."

"What is this?"

Neinheart's smile is scathing, "Exactly what it looks like."

Casmilia isn't sure whether that glint in his eye is good or bad, whether that smirk means something. With Neinheart—ever-expressionless Neinheart—any sign of emotion is bound to mean _something_ or other.

"After taking on such a dangerous task successfully," he declares, "I believe you are ready to move on to the next leg of your journey. Go and talk to Hawkeye."

Casmilia turns away from the strategist, taking care to glare at him over her shoulder, without muttering so much as a '_thank you_' as she sets off to her next task.

* * *

Leaning against the trunk of a tree on the outskirts of the Six Path Crossway, an exhausted Cecelia takes a swig of her water bottle, something dawning on her as she gives a sidelong glance to Reina, who appears to be staring into thin air.

"Reina?" Cecelia puts the cap back on the bottle, not entirely facing her.

Reina looks up at her, wide-eyed, wary, and she can see in her eyes the knowledge that she cannot be too trusting, yet to not be afraid of people in spite of this. How have the years passed that have made her think in such a way? What made her like this?

"What is it?" Her voice quiet, subdued, small and insignificant as she repeats those words again; is this how she wants people to see her?

Cecelia sighs, rubbing her temples, _'I think too much.'_

"I…"

She swallows. It's now or never, she decides.

"I know this sounds weird, and we've gone so far together to get out of there," Cecelia begins, "And I should know you better to have trusted you up until this point but I just… _don't_."

Reina finally turns her head to face her, hoping that her cringing internally does not show in her eyes. There is a pause as Reina examines her, makes sure she has no ulterior motive. Cecelia can't quite remember if she had always been this way. She had other things on her mind, like being thrown into an alternate universe; like getting kidnapped by a ten year-old kid who trapped her in a cult-like organisation for what felt like upwards of two years; like that _thing_ in her mind that talked to her that never seemed to be there until _this_ all happened.

Cecelia doesn't realise she is holding her breath until she exhales when Reina's shoulders relax.

"I understand what you mean," Reina says, "There are many things that you do not know about me."

The way Reina smiles at her makes Cecelia wonder if she will ever find out anything at all.

"In fact, there are many things _I_ don't know about me, but that's something else entirely."

"Is it because you can't remember them?" Cecelia asks.

Reina shakes her head, "There are simply certain things that I believe should be left unsaid."

She pauses, gaze lowering to her lap.

"How funny," Reina's voice is laced with a scornful laughter, "I spent so long searching for my past, and for everything I'd forgotten. Now, there are so many things that I wish I could forget."

Reina stands up and pats down her dress, her gaze not meeting Cecelia's eyes.

"I must say that it has been very nice meeting you, Cecelia."

"Huh?"

"I cannot accompany you for any longer. There are ends that I must meet, and many things that must be done."

Cecelia frowns, "Reina?"

Reina looks up towards the sky, as though fixing her gaze on the grey clouds would make them disperse. She sighs.

"These things, they are things that I was once afraid of, that I know now are things which I should never have been afraid of in the first place," she is resolute, determined, though the shadow of fear at the back of her words, ironically forever present, shakes her voice.

Reina's eyes are still gazing up towards the sky, as Cecelia fixes her gaze on her, searching for the answer to a question she can never bring herself to ask.

"In order to do these things, I must bid you adieu," Reina, still standing on shaky legs, looks back down to her feet with wide eyes, "I'm sorry."

Reina turns her eyes towards her, and it is Cecelia's turn to avoid her gaze.

"You won't forget me, will you?"

Cecelia frowns, realising she has already answered this question. This time, she isn't sure if she will be able to tell the truth. She doesn't know hat the truth even _is_ because neither of them know anything more than the other, so she keeps quiet, in hope that Reina interprets the silence as anything other than '_I don't know_'.

"I…"

When Cecelia turns around again to give her an answer, Reina is already gone.

* * *

In the midst of the fabric that makes up space, time and the dimensions, in the void where there is everything and nothing, Asmodius grimaces as he pulls the last throwing star from his torso. He flings it to the side, the wound sealing up almost instantaneously.

"_**There, that should do it…**_"

'_I have a question._'

Asmodius raises an eyebrow, "_**What is it, Eckhart?**_"

'_It's a little bit strange, thinking that you know all this stuff about me, and that I'm going to spend a long, long time with you,_ _but just who the hell are you?_'

"_**Oh, my, I've forgotten the pleasantries,**_" Asmodius can't help but laugh, "_**I wish I could go through an ever-so-cliché introduction, such as 'My name is…' and 'I am x years old'… but I have no name, nor is there a number that I can use to define my age.**_"

'_Wait, what?_'

"_**I don't have much at all, actually,**_" he drawls, "_**I am a nameless, faceless, soulless man who knows everything and nothing; he, who calls himself Asmodius.**_"

'_I see,_' Eckhart replies, '_Asmodius, I just want to ask you something else._'

"_**Yes?**_"

'_You told me why you kept my soul in my own body while you took control over it,_' he says, '_But why did you take over my body in the first place?_'

Asmodius pauses for a moment, then a moment longer, and Eckhart wonders if Asmodius is as all-knowing as he made himself out to be.

"_**I wanted to **_**feel**_**—if not **_**be**_**—alive.**_"

'_But then what does that make me?_' Eckhart says, '_Am I dead, then? Will I end up dying eventually while you're still in my body?_'

"_**So long as my soul is in your body, you cannot die.**_"

'_Why's that?_' Eckhart insisted.

"_**Because I'll have to die first for you to get your body back.**_"

'_Is that… a good thing?_'

Asmodius frowns, the fashion by which Eckhart asks questions reminding him of a certain green-eyed boy.

"_**For my soul to be ejected from this body, I would have to endure very grievous bodily injuries under very specific conditions. Then again, you may not survive when this body is in such disrepair.**_" Asmodius smirks, "_**But it'll take a long time before something like that happens, if it will happen at all—either way, in the end, by the time I am done with you, your body will be decrepit.**_"

Slowly, he turns towards what appears to be a dishevelled pile of dark cloth covering a pile of old bandages—upon closer inspection, they can see lifeless eyes bulging from a scarred, _scarred_ face, their disfigurement no longer obscured by the hood of the robe. Asmodius nudges his old body with his foot, and loose bandages unravel to reveal rotted, atrophied flesh barely clinging onto what is left of his bones.

"_**See?**_"

As the smell of ancient wine, stagnant memories and sadness erupts from the corpse, Eckhart internally grimaces, '_Will I look like that?_'

"_**Not for a long while, no, but you'll get there eventually,**_" he says, "_**Then again, we all do, don't we?**_"

_Crack._

_Crack…_

Something unidentifiable—apprehension, fear?—courses through Eckhart as he, for an instant, attempts to instinctively reach out for another throwing star. The emotion soon turns into agitation, as he remembers that he has no longer has the hands to hold them, nor the fingers with which to throw them.

'_What's that sound?_' he asks instead.

From the darkness, a mop of forest-green hair draped over brilliantly frightening crimson eyes could be faintly seen. Asmodius can only chuckle.

"_**It looks like we have a visitor.**_"

François, with the sleeve of his makeshift robe covering his mouth and nose, frowns, not sure whether to be perturbed by the stench or the sight of the pile of stagnant flesh and bone left to rot in the Paradoxical Pathway.

"_**Don't be afraid. I have simply found a new vessel,**_" Asmodius answers the question he was never asked, "_**Looks like I don't really need **_**him**_** anymore, then, do I?**_"

"So what are you going to do with _him_, now?"

Asmodius chuckles, "_**Observe him. Sit back and watch what happens.**_"

Eckhart simply sits and watches the banter, as the derisive, mocking, sharp laughter rings through the blankness within _where ever_ he is. Derisive, mocking and sharp laughter that was once his, followed by those words used to hurt, to harm.

Of course, now, he has no lips to mock, to speak, to laugh. He can only sit back, watch, and _observe_ it all.

'_Like in death, like in life, eh?_' he thinks, not entirely sure whether or not he is alive, or dead, or any of those things at all.

"Where did you find a new vessel so easily?"

The voice breaks him from his little trance, breaking through the initially muted, muffled buzzing of laughter in the background.

"_**They just waltz in, don't they?**_"

That chorus of dark laughter is heard again.

"So, now that you have a new body, and I have defeated the puppeteer," François offers, "How do you suppose we'll celebrate?"

Asmodius narrows his eyes, "_**You've come to me to talk of the puppeteer?**_"

* * *

Francis' eyes snap open, his mouth hanging open as he pants, shutting his eyes as he wipes the droplet of potion away from the corner of his mouth, forcing himself to take another swig of the bitter-tasting liquid.

'_Gh…_'

He grits his teeth, as he tries his hardest to gulp back more of the vile substance. The clink of an empty glass bottle rolling along the floor is a sound he can barely hear in the darkness. Feeling the familiar heat of the health potion immediately soaking through his veins, Francis gives a sigh as the pain slowly subsides.

* * *

"_**I thought you were going to report back to me on how this mission was going,**_" he gives a hefty sigh, "_**But you're here to tell me you've **_**completed**_** your mission?**_"

"My lord, I—"

He clutches at him by the collar, as he sneers, revealing his signature set of sharp teeth.

"_**You fool!**_"

* * *

Shutting his eyes tightly, he feels the last of the potions slowly taking effect as the pain subsides. The sound of the glass clattering onto the cave floor is almost satisfying.

Looking down where the bottles were, he finds a neatly-folded sheet of paper.

No doubt, left by that girl who left just before… The girl who had left him with nothing but five potions, a roll of bandages, and what he assumes are false words of consolation.

He grimaces, the potion lingering on his tongue suddenly tasting so much more bitter. Wrinkling his nose, he unfolds the sheet of paper, taking only a quick glance at the words before…

_Rip._

"Don't mock me."

With a new resolution, he lets the pieces fall to the floor.

* * *

Asmodius lifts him up by the collar into the air, glowering purple eyes boring into red.

"_**What did I tell you about your mission?**_"

François swallows, clawing at the fingers stretching the fabric of his robe, but to no avail.

"That I must fulfil my mission at all costs, no matter what it takes, in order for me to receive what I have been promised."

He is dropped to the floor with a thud, "_**Then what went wrong, François?**_"

He lays there on the floor, coughing and sputtering as he gasps for the stale air around him, perhaps unable to answer, or perhaps not _wanting_ to answer.

"_**The puppeteer is not dead!**_"

"Lord Asmodius," malice drips off of his voice as he pulls himself up and off the floor, "I would do many, many things for the sake of what you have promised."

His eyes return to their natural colour—the most brilliant shade of hazel, like burnt amber—for but a split second as determination flickers across them. François stands his ground as he watches Asmodius' lips curve into a contorted smile at the sight of his defiance.

"But I cannot and will not kill someone who is so precious to my sister."

* * *

"_Mama?"_

_He tugs on the edge of her robe, his eyes wide as he looked up towards her._

"_Will the Black Mage give back Mama?"_

_Eleanor's expression goes from that of happiness, of hope, to something else entirely that he can't quite understand._

"_Your mother?"_

"_Will I find her in a land of toys and puppets? __A land without tragedies?"_

* * *

"Even if such a place doesn't exist in this world…"

Francis still has to hold onto the sides of the walls to hobble towards what is left of his puppet.

'_Then…_'

"This land full of toys, dolls," he declares to no-one and nothing, "A land without tragedies. I will create it myself."

A land full of toys, dolls, and a land where there is no night, no darkness, no sadness…

He frowns. Hasn't it already been created? Doesn't it already exist? Francis finds it hard to believe that he even has the energy to laugh.

'_Then, instead, I will rule it._'

He continues to hobble across the cave. Though the words that leave his lips are quiet, they are the most resolute words that Francis finds himself uttering in the span of his short life.

"I will rule Ludibrium."


	28. Raison d'être

**Chapter 28**

(**_A/N_**) _Trying to pick up the pace, now that we're in the later stages of the story. There are many things that need to come together for this story to adequately reach a final denouement with as few plot holes as possible._

_While I don't want to drag this story on for longer than it has, I don't want it to be too rushed at the same time. I just hope the pacing from here on in isn't too wonky._

_Anyway, rambling aside, enjoy the latest chapter!_

* * *

"**_Are you here for the sole purpose of mocking me, François?_**"

"You asked for me to help you with your plans," he says, a wicked grin stretching across his face, "You never said to me, specifically, 'kill the puppeteer'. You said 'help me'."

Asmodius pauses to subdue the rage boiling from the pit of his stomach, pinching his nose bridge.

"**_I knew that this would happen,_**" he sighs agitatedly, "**_From the very beginning…_**"

"Then why did you summon me to fulfil your task, to be an instrument to your plans?"

"**_Because taking a soul from asunder the depths of time and space and fashioning them to look like a ten year-old boy with green hair _****_would be too much trouble._**"

François stands his ground, as Asmodius leans in closer.

"**_You, on the other hand, are already here. For some reason, your soul, for some reason, will not depart this Earth. I have only given you a physical form almost identical to your old one. The eyes, the stature, the temperament, you _****are****_, truthfully speaking, the puppeteer himself._**"

"These eyes are no longer my own," he remarks, "And so long as I am dead, I am no longer a human, a puppeteer."

"**_Then why do you hold sentiment towards this little boy, who was born long after your time? Is it because you are his namesake?_**" his voice is mocking, "**_Just because you once shared the same blood?_**"

"We still do share the same blood. Is he no longer my nephew because I have died? These sorts of bonds can't be broken so easily. Not even by death."

"**_Killing the puppeteer wasn't the big plan,_**" He spits, "**_It is only a single scene—no, not even a single page—within the play that I have composed!_**"

Rage, real rage, for the first time in so, so long, boils through him, his fists clenched. Even so, the puppeteer is still able to smile, to smirk so mockingly.

"**_You have ruined my plan, my play!_**"

"But doesn't the puppeteer write the play?"

"**_You're not a puppeteer. You said so yourself!_**" his laughter is scornful, "**_You're nothing. You're _****dead****_._**"

The boy grimaces at that last word, spat with so much contempt.

"**_So, if you're dead, what purpose do you have in this world which is no longer yours? A world that never belonged to you in the first place?_**"

"You talk as if you own the Maple World," he can barely hold in his laughter.

"**_How _****badly****_ do you want what you have wished for?_**"

"What has Francis got to do with this 'big plan' that I have nearly no knowledge of?"

"**_You're dodging the question._**"

"Fine. I'll answer."

"**_How _****badly****_ do you want whatever it is that you have wished for?_**"

A long pause stretches between them, so silent that Asmodius can hear Eckhart grumbling in his head ("_There's _got _to be something to do for the rest of eternity than sit around, right?_") as well as the sound of François shifting uncomfortably where he stands.

"I don't wish such a thing for the sake of myself, if that's what you're asking."

"**_Did you realise what you were sacrificing?_**" His voice is still cool, calm, collected, "**_Did you even care enough to find out the price of such a wish, like one which requires me to tamper with the hands of the clock, the thread of fate?_**"

"The thread of fate?"

"**_Yes, François, the thread of fate. You really thought your death was an accident?_**"

"No, I _do_ believe my death was a work of fate." He exhales, shutting his eyes, "From the start, I knew someone pulled the strings. Someone determined that my fate was to die. Perhaps it was to make those around me—my sister, particularly—stronger. Perhaps my dolls were entrusted to her son for a reason."

Asmodius raises an eyebrow.

"You can't defy fate," François continues, "And his fate… his fate does not predict that he will die. Not now. Not for a long time. I do not wish to change that."

"**_Tch. You may have been dead for well over two decades, now,_**" Asmodius spits, "**_But you still are as naïve as the nine year-old you were back then. _****_I hope you realise that what you made was a compromise, when you agreed to be reincarnated into this body integrated this time period in order to find what you wanted._**"

François' eyes widen, as he lets the pause stretch out between them. He takes one step back, and then another, his heart thudding in his ribcage.

He knows that Asmodius is a very obscure man, if he is even a man at all—the new form he has taken on seems to be doing wonders, though—shrouding many of his words in mystery, trailing off and never finishing his sentences, the plans behind his ideas, his words, his so-called '_play_'. This is all just a silly game to him, isn't it?

Asmodius watches with a smile as François says nothing, and sprints out of the pathway.

* * *

Francis pants, the congealed blood that had dribbled from his forehead down to his cheek cracking as he opens his mouth, gasps for air—how long has he been doing this, now? Forty-five minutes? An hour?

How far has he gone, how far will he have to go?

Chest full of heat and bile, his steps characterised by the squelching of the mud beneath fallen leaves grow slower, less frequent. Even he, who has not lived nor explored this island, knows that the sight of the moss-covered trees enveloping him contrasts the barren Perion landscape.

And yet his heart still leaps when the thought creeps up into the back of his mind—the adrenaline, the empty hope that he will get somewhere, anywhere, _away_, is what keeps him going.

With a grimace, his arms, with the parts of the doll encased within them, cannot clutch at the pain near his chest, which he knows full well is not a stitch.

The fear and the pain is masked by the adrenaline, which propels him forward, keeps him running, and he doesn't stop because he knows, he knows that Ereve can move, and they'll make the island float to where he is, find him, take him, and then—and then do what?

The forest, although he has walked through these woods in search of his hideout perhaps a thousand times is a place he barely recognises, with the sides of his vision blurred.

'_Is this even Ellinia anymore?_' He wonders, eyes half-lidded and swollen.

He has to run faster, to stay ahead, so that he won't have to find out what they want from him.

Keep running.

Keep moving forward.

Onwards, further, faster, the forest seems to stretch for miles.

There is nothing that can stop him.

Even in the confines of his own room in the hideout, he is not safe, because they _will_ find him, they _will_ kill him.

There is nothing that can stop the hands of the clock, the thread of fate.

His foot gets caught in a tree root, his knees crumbling to the floor, and then his puppets follow after him.

He grits his teeth. Keep running. Keep moving forward.

"O-Onwards…"

He props himself up on shaky knees, feeling as though his parched throat has been cut by razor blades. His knuckles are white as he digs his nails into the soil, as he desperately tries to drag himself along the ground, his legs aching, his breath raspy as he sharply inhales, exhales, trying to keep a steady rhythm but feeling as though he is drowning, drowning on the suffocating air surrounding.

'_Further…_'

His puppet, his lifeline, scattered in front of him, its eyes empty as they stare into the sky where it perhaps resides.

'_Everything has a soul,_' he tells himself, '_Even ugly puppets, silly dolls…_'

He shuts his eyes and lets the tears fall, because no amount of string, wood or glue will ever put a soul back together again.

When he reopens his eyes, there is a figure standing over him, shadowing over the puppet. A figure with matted black hair, a wrinkled nose, and his green eyes narrowed at him.

Somehow, that sort of look hurts him more than any injury ever will.

'_I-It's you again,_' Francis tries to say, but what comes out is a desperate and panicked wheeze, choked by the iron taste of blood still at the back of his throat. Andrew lifts him up by the collar of his robe, and Francis can only wince at the pain that shoots through him.

"Where is she?"

Francis tries to open his mouth again, but this time he is silent. He does not have the energy to protest as Andrew slings him over his back.

"Gh…" Andrew grunts, beginning to walk, "Francis, I swear to God …"

* * *

Francis opens his eyes again to a tattered wooden ceiling, the sound of a pen scratching against paper, echoing through the room like the days he spent sitting next to Baroq's desk in his office, playing with his doll.

Except he is not in Baroq's office anymore, and he doesn't know if he will ever smell the comforting scent of coffee wafting through the air as Baroq fills out paperwork and cranes his neck around occasionally to ask how he is ever again…

His eyes widen, as he shoots straight up.

"Where..." His mouth, which he had opened to speak, is instead agape in shock as pain shoots through him.

The magician cranes his neck around to see Francis, who slumped back onto his seemingly rock-solid bed.

"Oh. You're awake."

"Where am I?" Francis manages to grunt.

Andrew spins around on his chair so that he is fully facing him, "My humble abode, of course."

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Dunno," Andrew shrugs, "It's not like I could have just _left_ you there, though."

"But why didn't you?"

Francis frowns, '_None of this makes any sense…_'

Andrew shrugs again, and Francis wonders if it's possible for Andrew to shrug his shoulders any more before his shoulders just rolled out of their sockets and onto the floor.

"You're just a kid. You can't die." His gaze darkens, "Well, not _yet_, anyway."

"Yet?!"

"Jesus Christ," Andrew says, "Calm down, won't you? I was only kidding."

"What's a 'Jesus Christ'?"

Andrew shakes his head, spinning his chair around.

"Are you going to kill me?" Francis says the words slowly, warily.

Time seems to slow down around him as he waits, and waits, and waits for the answer, but Andrew simply crosses his arms, rolls his eyes and spins back around to his desk, and the sounds of pen scratching against paper fill the room again.

"Andrew, what do you want with me?"

"Nothing," he answers simply, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Francis narrows his eyes.

"I may be ten years old," he says slowly, "But I'm _not_ a moron."

There is a smirk on his face as he continues to move his pen across the page, "I'm probably the biggest asshole to walk upon the face of this Earth," Andrew retorts, as though it is something to be proud of, "But I'm not a psychopath."

With those final words, the near-silence wrings out through the room again.

"Andrew?"

Francis lies down again, when he finally spots a doll with empty eyes sitting on a makeshift bedside table, patched back together, piece by piece, with glue and string.

* * *

_"Everything has a soul, my dear—even these dolls, these silly puppets…"_

* * *

Francis shuts his tired eyes with a sigh.

'_A soul can't be pieced back together again with a bit of string and glue,_' he thinks, '_But you can at least try, huh?_'

With the reassurance of knowing that he will be able to wake up again alive, Francis falls into deep sleep for the first time in a while.

* * *

_Clutching numbly at the wall, his other arm wrapped around his fragmented doll as though for dear life, the bruises and the dents marked in his body no longer take a human shape. _

_"N-No," The girl does not know if the tears in her eyes are out of fear, or out of pity, "Please, I don't want to fight anymore, and neither do you."_

_The puppeteer's attempt at a reply is a contorted, ugly sound and a spatter of blood across her robe. And he continues to hobble forward, fighting for his life, fighting for a cause the both of them know is dead, and she has to stop him and his organisation and everything they stand for. _

_Even if he is merely a child._

_Even if he is exactly like her._

_She grimaces as she throws the final punch._

* * *

Casmilia's eyes snap open, sweat soaking the silk sheets as her breath comes in sporadic gasps and pants, her fingers still bunched up in fabric as her wide eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. On a hanger across from her bed, she cringes at the sight of her Noblesse robe, covered in dried blood stains. She shuts her eyes tightly, and she tries, _tries_ to forget, but…

* * *

_"_… _My puppet was never empty!" he shrieks, "You were the one that came along and made it that way!"_

* * *

Casmilia flings her legs over the edge of the bed, and groggily makes her way to the moonlit living room, where she sees her older sister sitting, resting her head against her arm on the windowsill.

"Hey, Caspeona?" Casmilia whisper-shouts, "Are you awake?"

Caspeona lifts her head to glance at her sister, her already-pale skin looking sickly under the moonlight

"Do you have any idea how late it is?" she mutters, conveniently ignoring the fact that she herself is wide awake at one o'clock in the morning, "You should be in bed right now."

Casmilia approaches the window, "Sorry, I just can't sleep."

Caspeona scoots over, lightly patting the seat next to her, "Come here, we haven't talked for a while. How was your mission?"

Her sister grimaces in response.

* * *

_The tears are hot on his cheeks, "Tell that stupid strategist of yours that I don't want to fight anymore!"_

* * *

"As I said, I can't sleep."

Caspeona sighs as her sister sits down next to her.

"Is everything okay?" she whispers.

"I just wanted to ask you one question," she replies, though she does not wait for affirmation, "What was your first mission like?"

"My first mission involved running paperwork through an ancient scanner for Neinheart," Caspeona chuckles, "But I get the sense that you're talking about something else."

"What did it feel like to kill someone for the first time?"

Her eyes widen at how the air surrounding suddenly becomes heavy and cold. Casmilia wishes that she can reach out and take those words back, but now there is nothing more that she can do, nothing that she can say to take it all back, except…

"Caspeona, I'm sorry, I..."

Casmilia almost recoils as her sister places her clawed, calloused hand over her own.

"I felt nothing."

Caspeona does not move her gaze from the window, as much as she wonders what kind of expression Casmilia is wearing—that of disgust, of shame, of pity?

"I felt numb," the night walker continues, her voice flat, "Before that day, I never imagined that a human being could produce a scream like that."

Casmilia's eyes widen as she peers at her expression, or lack thereof.

"You don't even have to make them justification of 'them or me' anymore. The fact that you're completely numb is what's most frightening."

The night walker continues to stare out the window, carefully schooling her face into still blankness. The years have taught her to not give anything away. Not with her expression, her eyes, her body language, _nothing at all_.

But the way her body tremors, the way her hand squeezes Casmilia's so tightly that she is afraid she will break her bones… she is relieved that only a trained eye such as her own can see such minute details.

"And then you wake up again in the morning the next day," she finishes, "And life goes on. Then you have to do it all over again."

"But…" Casmilia's voice is weak, "Why?"

It seems that they overestimated Casmilia's abilities, she thinks. Caspeona closes her eyes, still not facing her, and then wraps her arms around her shoulders, exhaling as she holds her close.

"I know it is painful, but it is our duty to Cygnus," she whispers, "This is our livelihood. We can't just _leave_ when we've already got blood on our hands."

Casmilia places her head in the crook of her shoulder, and they stare out into the darkness of the night for what seems to be a too-long time, as the thoughts of what is to come race through both of their heads.

"Sorry about that," Caspeona's voice cuts through the silence.

"No, it's fine."

"Are you feeling better now?"

"I guess I am," Casmilia says with a hint of melancholy that makes them both wonder if she is telling the truth.

"That's good. Go to bed, then, alright?" Caspeona replies nonetheless, as she ruffles her sister's hair, with a small smile on her face, "You've got a big day ahead tomorrow. Second job advancement already, eh?"

"Y-Yeah," Casmilia lets out a nervous laugh, "I don't really know what to expect, though."

"You'll be fine, I'm sure. Rest up."

Caspeona watches her closely as she walks out of the room, and waits until she can faintly hear small snores from the room next door.

She sighs, pulling something out of her pocket.

* * *

_"Lulu!" an unfamiliar voice, decidedly female, rings out, "Lulu, grab my hand, we need to get out of here, come on!"_

_The stench of death, darkness, madness, the final choked cries of someone she can't quite recognise and the smell of burnt flesh assaults her senses. Her eyes water from the thick plumes of smoke, or perhaps something else entirely._

* * *

Caspeona hates being alone.

She had long ago ascertained that she hates being alone because it is during this time she reflects on things long gone, those things which should remain unremembered and unmourned.

Now, she has more reason to hate being alone, because, now, when she is alone, she remembers.

She remembers when she was full of life, when she held idealism in her heart instead of hatred for the world and for the people that wrought upon her such a terrible fate.

She remembers, then, that nobody from her family is ever destined to be in the Order of Cygnus. Perhaps her demon-like disfigurement—canines for teeth, claws for fingernails, skin pale as a sheet—is a mockery on the part of Goddess, a punishment for straying away from her pre-determined past.

She remembers her real name, her real past, her real self, not the rewritten one thrust upon her by the power of Shinsoo and Cygnus.

But no matter how much power anyone holds, no-one, not even Cygnus, not even Shinsoo, not even _Goddess_ herself can rewrite the truth.

She remembers that Casmilia is not her blood-sister, and that Ereve is not her home.

Caspeona—she is not sure if she can refer to herself as such anymore—finally shuts her eyes, falling asleep on the edge of the windowsill.

An empty vial of memory serum clatters to the ground.

* * *

It is when darkness, teetering on the edge of dawn shrouds the Verne mine that the Master of Disguise decides to take his leave. He sighs. Perhaps this will be the last time he walks along these corridors, the last time he will breathe this stagnant air. Why does he feel so happy?

His eyes widen as perfectly manicured nails dig into his skin through the thin fabric of his robe.

"Stay," she almost commands, if not for the desperation in her voice, "Don't go."

Almost feeling annoyed, Baroq attempts to tug his robe away from her grasp. Instead, he growls lowly, "Eleanor…"

He continues to slowly step forward, and she continues to follow suit.

"You can't do this to yourself."

"You can't tell me what to do," he mutters, "That's Orca's job, now."

"But I'm afraid."

"Of what?" He snaps, "You're not the one who has to risk your life to steal... to steal _something_. Whatever it is, it's important."

He stops walking.

"Important enough for me to risk my life, apparently."

"What's the purpose of your mission if you don't even know what you're after?"

"That's like asking why we're alive," he half-turns to her, "What's the purpose of our life? What's the point if all we're going to do is going to die for… Whatever our cause may be. Whatever we got ourselves into."

Eleanor is careful to not loosen her hold on him, grasping him with a second hand.

"You can't leave," she says again, "You can't go."

"And to think you're older than me, still clinging to me like a child!" He laughs, though the sound is not light, nor pleasant. Eleanor can no longer suppress her grimace.

"Don't think I don't worry about you, Baroq."

"For the love of Goddess, _please_ don't."

"You're going to be killed!" she hisses, "Do you even understand what that _means_?"

He completely turns to her, his lips a tight, firm line. His eyes usually hidden beneath his hood are now dulled, riddled with a twinge of fear where there used to be that glimmer in his eyes, like the one in a person's eyes when they are about to laugh, almost as if, to him, life is a perpetual joke. But now, instead of joviality, there is fear.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of failure.

Eleanor does not let go. Rather, her vice-like grip threatens to crush the bones in his wrist.

"Is this it?"

"Is _what_ it?"

"Is this the end?"

That twinge of fear is replaced with something that looks like sympathy, or perhaps sadness, but passes by too quickly for her to think about it for any longer.

"Don't worry."

He smiles, like he used to do when they were young so long ago, when they thought of nothing but their dreams, their happiness; that chaste smile she hasn't seen for many years, the one without worry, without remorse. Without regrets.

She shuts her eyes, letting out a sigh. To him, surely, this _is_ it. This _is_ the end.

"I'll manage."

Eleanor frowns, "What happened to '_we_'?"

He tugs his arm away.

"Because I'm not so sure about you anymore."

Baroq begins walking again, though not before he glances over his shoulder. He is not sure if Eleanor even notices the tears streaming down her face.

"Goodbye," he says.

He does not expect her, from this point, to walk behind him to pull him back into the heart of the hideout, nor does he expect to hear her cry out for him to stay. He expects her to know, and to understand that there is one last thing to be done.

She steps forward nonetheless. And, for a brief moment, he sees the Eleanor from so many years ago—young, wide-eyed, naïve, _broken_ Eleanor. The Eleanor who can't ever bring herself to say goodbye, the Eleanor who could never let go of things long gone, leave what was and what never could be unsaid, unremembered, and unmourned; leave what is in the past where it belongs.

"How is it possible for you to be so selfish?"

Baroq doesn't bother to search for an answer.

"You can't just leave us behind," she grimaces as her words crack, "You could have just chosen to forfeit the mission."

"I didn't choose this. I wouldn't have," he places his hands in his pockets, looking up to the ceiling as though to avoid her eyes, "It was an order from _them_. It's protocol."

Eleanor grits her teeth.

"What will Francis think, Baroq?" she hisses, "He looks up to you. He's starting to think you're his _father_, for crying out loud!"

The clack of stilettos growing louder against the hard floor rings harsh in his ears.

"And whether you can believe it or not," she says, "Whether you _want_ to believe it or not, he cares for you and loves you like you are _actually his father_, because he has no-one else in this world. Not here. Not now."

Baroq doesn't know whether he winces at her scathing words or at her attempting to pull him back, first by the arm, then by the collar.

"He _loves_ you, Baroq, and now you're just going to leave?"

"He already knows, Eleanor."

Her grip around his collar tightens, the twinge of rage in her eyes unfaltering.

"We're breaking him, Baroq."

"Eleanor—"

"He can't be broken. Not so soon. He... not now. He's only a child."

"We were only children once, too, Eleanor."

Her eyes widen at the sharp edge to his voice.

"But look at us!" he bellows, "Look around you! What future do you see in the Black Wings? For us, and for him?"

The tears in her eyes are hot with fury, instead of sadness. Even so, she lets go of his collar, pushing him away.

"Francis will have a future," Though she trembles, her scrutinizing gaze is sharp as her words, her lips forming a tight line, "There is no other option, there can't be. I won't have it any other way. Even if this future is without you, I will make sure that he will be happy."

"Then I have nothing to worry about."

Eleanor's eyes widen.

"Francis is a strong boy," he lowers his gaze, "I'm not saying that this won't hurt him. But, at the very least, so long as he has you, I know he will cope."

"Who says he will be able to cope, Baroq?"

A long pause stretches between them. How are they both so sure of what is to come?

Baroq only barely manages to hold in his incredulous though mirthless laughter, "You talk as if he doesn't know loss."

Without a word, he places his hands in his pockets as he walks, perhaps neither knowing nor caring that this may—no, this _will_—be the last time he will walk along these corridors, or breathe this stagnant air.

He says nothing more, because he has already entrusted his final wishes to someone—

* * *

_"Look after Eleanor."_

* * *

—And there is nothing else that can be done.

So long as Francis adheres to it, so long as Eleanor fulfils her promise, and so long as they both are able to live, grow older and become happy even without him, even if they are not a family like they all wished and hoped to be, then he has no regrets.

So long as Eleanor and Francis have each other, even if he is not there to see it…

With an air of finality, "Goodbye."

Eleanor watches him slowly walk down the corridor, perhaps stretching out what little time they have left, standing there for a few long moments after his figure can no longer be seen in the distance.

Her eyes are dry, for she has no tears to shed.

Not yet.

* * *

Francis opens one eye slowly, giving a sidelong glance to the desk, which is unoccupied save for the stacks of papers and an ice-cold mug of tea. The sounds of pen scratching against paper can no longer be heard.

Flinging his legs over the edge of his bed, his path illuminated by moonlight seeping in through the windows, steps lightly on the wooden boards.

'_I wonder how long Andrew actually _stays_ here,_' Francis winces, as he makes his way to the priest's desk, the poorly-built scaffolding still creaked and groaned beneath his bare feet.

He approaches the desk gingerly, drawn to the stacks of paper piled high on the desk, and the loose sheets strewn across.

He turns one over, and peers at it; a monochrome sketch of a forlorn girl staring out of a window. Francis traces his finger over the indents in the paper, feeling a strange beauty emanating from the girl's sad grey eyes that perhaps no pen can ever replicate.

He brings the paper closer to his face, narrowing his eyes.

"Reina?"

"What?"

Francis snaps around to meet the gaze of Andrew, who steps forward. The boy-priest finds incredulousness seeping into his tone, "How do you know that name?"

Francis, with a start, attempts to fling the paper back onto the desk.

"I-I…" He lets out a nervous laugh, wondering if he can turn around and grab his doll and attach the strings to it quickly enough for him to survive.

But there is no need. Andrew simply stands there, and stares.

"Francis," he says again—slowly, deliberately, "How do you know her name?"

The puppeteer gulps, taking slow steps back, afraid that he has left Andrew waiting for a second or two too long as he tries to choose the words to leave his parted lips.

"I met her once."

Andrew lunges forward and grabs him by the shoulders, eyes widened.

He shakes him, "Where?"

"She… she was with the crazy girl."

"Crazy girl?" He frowns, "_Cecelia_? What?"

Francis gasps as the fabric of his robes is bunched up, swearing that Andrew's hands clamped around his shoulders would leave bruises as he squeezes them tighter, _tighter_…

"You kidnapped my sister?!" his eyes are wide and maniacal.

"I-It wasn't me," Francis manages, his own eyes widening, "She wasn't recruited by _me_…"

The words leave his lips, but seem to fail to register in his mind, "My _sister_ is in the Black Wings?"

"Not anymore, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister escaped with the crazy girl. I have no idea where they are, but if they have half a brain, then they've probably run somewhere really, really far away."

Andrew, still clasping onto Francis, takes a few minutes for him to recollect his thoughts, to calm himself. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in—

All of a sudden, he has a plan. And he isn't sure if it will work or not because it is out of the blue, sporadic, as most of his plans are.

"Hey, Francis," he softens his voice.

But he has tried everything else, and there is nothing for him to lose. He doesn't wait for Francis' gaze to meet his own.

"Francis," determination sparkles in his eyes, "How about we make a deal?"


End file.
